A Gutter Rat's Tale
by Minnionette
Summary: Swallowing his pride, Severus Snape reluctantly writes Harry Potter a very personal letter in which he explains not only his own past, but also the brutal history and ill-fated heritage of the Potter family. AU pre-OotP.
1. Of The Humblest Beginnings

**Author's Notes and Warnings:  
**

This story began with my disappointment of all the abused-Snape childhood stories out there. There was only one story where I could find that Severus Snape was _not _abused by his parents/legal guardians, but he turned out gay. This clashed with my mental image of an asexual Severus Snape who viewed sex as nothing more than a sticky annoyance meant to proliferate and assure the next generation of idiots - er, humans.

I began writing _A Gutter Rat's Tale_ in early March, 2002, and finished it in the middle of April of that same year. The idea was so potent that I could easily write 5,000 words in a single sitting (well, easily in so far as we ignore how sore my back was and how I could not longer feel my butt...). I finished the story at 90 pages and roughly 70,000 words. Three times I came back for revisions, the last being a massive overhaul.

One of the most popular questions my readers asked was, "Well, what _did_ Voldemort do to James?" Truthfully_, I _had no idea. Whoops. When my best friend asked me herself, I sat down at 10 PM, June 8th of 2002 to write the simple little side story. I finished at 1:33 AM, June 9th. _That Which James Witnessed_ mutated though, and I'm not sure how! Now that Severus had had his fill, James Potter demanded equal treatment. In the end, TWJW is 42 pages and 30,000 words long and is one of the most emotionally powerful pieces I have ever written.

I like to think I'm finished with this entire thing, but that remains to be seen.

Now, three points to bear in mind to ease the story's readability:

1) The time line. A person could have read this with a grain of salt in 2002. However, it is made obsolete with the publication of OotP, so Snape and James can be seen as horribly out-of-character, not to mention the very idea of Snape's relationship with James is completely unfeasible. (How was _I _supposed to know that James was actually an arrogant prick?!) AGRT is meant to be read as sort of a sequel to GoF, bearing in mind that everything in OotP _never_ happened.

2) The rating. This is a very **dark **story pertaining to some very **dark **issues. Snape doesn't so much as address the issues, like rape and child neglect and molestation, as he shuffles them under the carpet and pointedly ignores them. Other issues include torture, **extremely graphic violence,** and cannabalism. If you don't think you can maturely handle such scenes or material, please do not read this story. There may be no sex, but the story worked very hard to earn that M rating. And that's not even delving into the conundrum that is a Machiavellian Voldemort. (Although you must admit, you surely wondered _how_ Voldemort came up with "death eater".)

3) Snape switches tenses sometimes - this is a styalistic matter, rather than a writer's mistake. Snape is writing a story of the past so he uses past tense, but sometimes he brings in details of the present so he writes _those _in present tense, and details from the past and the present will clash and jumble together, especially when Voldemort is involved. I've had some readers complain about the confusion, but the warning still stands even after my polishing.

* * *

_In which Snape swallowed his pride, chokes past the lump, and forces himself to start._

* * *

Harry Potter, I am not certain of where to begin this tale; I certainly shall not sugar-coat my words lest they offend your delicate sensibilities, but all stories have a beginning, a middle, and an end. But for me, a beginning requires knowing where events are put into motion, or are first recognized as being set forth. As our lives are strings of many a coincidence and choices made without thought, the beginning is never the true beginning. And I'm quite sure that you have absolutely no desire to know anything about your horrid Potions professor, lest you realize that the monster is actually human (_I_ have no desire for you to realize that I am human – I would much rather live being the monster who dwells in the dungeons, but I know that living is now beyond my reach).

So perhaps the best place to begin would be the world as I first understood it.

Those who live on the streets, sheltered by overhangs, doorways, cardboard boxes, and heaps of garbage, are often thought to be the dredges of life. When someone says "street urchin," the term commonly brings to mind a ragged and thin child, dressed in torn, dirty clothing not fit to wipe clean a pigsty. "Beggars" are those who sit on a street corner, wearing rags and their faces caked with dirt, their skin drawn tight over protruding bones or sagging and fragile. There are, too, "gangs" of hooligans who vandalize property, mug, murder, and deal in drugs.

Such people of the street are thought to be the filth of mankind for they cannot cope in the real world, cannot allow society to accept them, because life, although hard, is very simple; perfect for such lazy bastards who refuse to accept the responsibilities of home, jobs, and social lives – of being moral and righteous. These people of the streets are selfish and stubborn, but their harsh fate was wrought through their own fault. They made the choice to exist in these conditions.

In large cities, there are societies within societies. Everything has an order and rules. The common worker has the union; the rich and the elite their cliques. Children of schools soon realize that their world is contained within this single area, for school is their social, cultural, and educational worlds.

Even the streets have their own societies, much like a school. In a single run-down block, you will find separate gangs of hooligans, packs of street urchins and gutter rats, street whores and hookers of both sexes who sell their bodies and molest children to gain whatever perverted pleasure they find, and those individual beggars who refuse to take part in a group. All of these groups function by themselves, yet they are a part of a society in and of themselves. There is Structure; there are Rules.

I imagine you would not understand the vast complexity of such a place. After all, you, with your comfortable home, friends, and family, would not understand how precious and beautiful a single nook against a wall behind a pair of trashcans would be. How can such a silly thing be so beautiful? Because it is a shelter from the chill wind and drizzling moisture; it is _all_ the difference in the world when the only protection one otherwise has from the weather are the thin rags upon one's back.

Oh yes, often there are those who blame us for living in the streets like vermin! After all, we as humans chose our fates and thus we have only ourselves to blame for our pitiful existence human trash existing with disposable trash. In essence, we are the society of the slums, and even the society beyond the slums understood this on some subconscious level. It may not have been much, but it belonged to us. It was all we understood, so therefore we welcomed it. But we do not welcome with open arms, beckoning our fates close so we may hold them to our breast like a viper.

Not all of the children you see scuttling along in the poor, run-down areas of the huge metropolitan cities of the world, their eyes trained on the ground lest they catch the gaze of someone with an attitude, are runaways. Not all of the beggars who live on the street are those who no longer wish to pay their taxes or live their mundane lives within offices or broken homes. Not all the gang members are rebellious teenagers. Not all hookers and whores are those people who are broke or bankrupt or drug addicts.

The slums are not an escape.

Believe me, the slums are the harshest places to live in the world. Once trapped, there is no escape. You can take the gutter rat from the slums, but you cannot take the slums from the gutter rat.

My earliest memory is that of standing outside a restaurant's front glass window with its name scrawled across the top before the green background of half-drapes. I was bunched side by side with by three other children, all of whom were older than I, as we stared into the window at the wondrous banquet beyond our starving reach. I cannot say what I thought of at the time. I do remember seeing tall stacks of golden hot cakes, drowning in rich syrup and melting pads of butter.

When I look back on those days, I feel only a simple loss. It is not as if I actually _liked_ being on the outside, staring in and thinking that, just once, I would have liked to eat hot cakes not rescued from the garbage amongst muck and gore. But if anyone ever took pity upon the four hungry faces that gazed longingly at their food, I never knew.

_That_ is from where the feeling of loss comes. Does anyone ever think what a blessing that barely-touched plate of food _one_ could have finished eating but did not because _one_ was on a diet would have been to starving gutter rats going days and days without the slightest nourishment?

_I_ did not ask for the street life, and yet there I was, staring into the restaurant's window with my three companions. For all the spells and all the potions I have tried throughout the years, I can recover not a single memory older than that.

I do not know how I came to live on the streets.

I know nothing of my blood family - of who sired me, and whose womb had kept me safe for nine months.

I suspect I am a child borne of rape to some female gang member and was abandoned or orphaned. Actually, I do suspect my life began as an unwanted bastard to someone too fearful of the pain and possible death that comes hand in hand with a back-alley abortion; I was brought into the world covered in blood just as I shall leave it soon.

On the other hand, I could be a wizard's child, left in the care of some gutter rat or beggar in fear of my bloodlines. Perhaps that is merely wishful thinking on my part.

Still and all, I do regret not knowing. It is not as if I _want_ to find out if I was abandoned out of maliciousness or spitefulness, but there will always be those questions of _what if?_ and _why? _A strange thing, curiosity. It is both a virtue and a vice; it causes nightmares and headaches and heartaches – which is why I do not encourage it in people who are irresponsible. (This is a pointed jab at you, Potter, oh yes indeed.)

I must admit that, from the beginning, I was not like the other gutter rats. I was far too ambitious to remain one for the rest of my life. The gutter rats are the lowest of low in the society of the slums. The street urchins are the packrats and cutpurses, often rising to becoming gang members and/or drug dealers if they survive. We gutter rats never grow out of what we are, providing we actually live long enough to grow. We are the timid runts, too scared of the upper classes to steal from them, too cowed by the gangs and their ugly violence, and too apprehensive to beg for food. Some would sell our bodies to the whores and hookers, allowing hands to roam where they should not be welcomed, subjected to perverted and dirty sexual acts for badly-needed food or money.

There are also those of us who are forced into said acts against their will, accepting their very lives as payment.

Rape is a common enough circumstance, even to children as young as four and five years.

If you have ever seen a child rutting through garbage, hungrily gulping down anything edible, be it rotten or contaminated from other trash? The gutter rats are the only ones who ever stoop to such a level. The gangs share with its members — grudgingly, with those who are lower on the pecking order — and the street urchins buy cheap foods from corner groceries with their stolen money.

We are the scruffy, skinny, and dirty children who hover at the edges of churches for the free charity dinners and potlucks. We are the ones who disappear with a single word of warning. We know more about hiding spots and escape routes than any of the other groupies of the slums' society. We render ourselves invisible amongst crowds of any sizes by exuding the sense of being unimportant and worthless, for that is what gutter rats truly believe of themselves.

One would never know we existed, if one's conscience did not give one's self a swift kick in the shin to force one's attention on those poor souls who, for no other reason than being born helpless in a world full of cruel and selfish persons, are trapped. Because of this result of birth, we are stuck within a ruthless world where hope forever remains something that _does not exist._

We never amount to much, we gutter rats. None can read or write and are lucky to count to ten without mixing numbers up in between. Harsh weather, diseases, lack of food, and the misfortune of being caught in one of the many gang wars for turf - all of these are, I assure you, very good population controllers. Those gutter rats that manage to reach their teens are considered the elders and often teach the younger generation of gutter rats the ways of survival.

Sooner or later though, a gang member would catch sight of a teenaged gutter rat and force that gutter rat to take sides. It was a death warrant, for if one chose one gang for allies, one makes enemies of more than a dozen others.

I was ambitious to be greater than just a street urchin. I had no desire to exist in the streets forever, ducking and dodging stronger forces than myself, rutting for scraps of food unfit for human consumption. This isolated me from my fellow gutter rats; and the slums are already a very lonely existence.

I remember the words "Knowledge is power," though I do not know from whence I first heard them. My earliest memories echo that philosophy though. I was filled with the burning need to become powerful. I wanted to become too strong for anyone to ever push me around. I would not be hated, judged and condemned for living how I did. I would not have others take things from me.

I _really_ hate it when what is mine is stolen from me; privacy did not exist on the streets anymore than one owning a single thing. One does not even have rights to the clothes upon one's back for even someone larger or stronger could strip away even that little bit of comfort.

Do you have any idea what it is like to be stripped naked by a leering bully, pawing clumsily at the entire time, then thrust upon the street corner in full view of everyone else as some cruel joke?

No, obviously not.

And it is because of these memories of never having anything, of the idea of being trapped forever in a world such as this, did I aspire to become greater than my fellow wretches. The key to getting out of the slums' society is through education, though, and education required a home of some sort; schools were not given to allowing strangers in off the streets. So how may one learn to read, write, and count without learned guidance?

I would be vain if I said I did everything myself. I proudly admit having help along the way. But had I had been like those others on the streets, I would have been too blind to see the help and grasp at it like a lifeline, and I would not be where I am today.

I can see your thoughts now: _more's the pity_.

And that is the irony of the situation. Harry Potter, I owe your lineage more than just the debt of my life from being saved by your father. That is not why I helped you those times throughout the years, and you better not dare to presume otherwise. James only saved me from being killed after _his friends _nearly led me to my death while, at the same time, nearly creating a murderer out of another innocent. The idea I would help you because of such a debt is ridiculous. _They_ owe _me_ on that!

I help because it is my duty and for the unpaid debt I owe the Potter family. It was through your great-grandmother I was rescued from the slums, out of the grasp of death itself.

Through her I know a great deal of the Potter family and because I know so much do I tell you now. I am the last of the Snapes; together, you and I are the last of the Potters. I know, I know. I taste the same bitterness in my mouth as I write just as surely as you do as you read. However, a tale to be told must be started from the beginning, and my beginning shaped the events that led me to her and ties me so closely to _you_.

* * *

An uncommonly shrewd teenaged gutter rat led the little clan of gutter rats that my daily existence revolved around; one who knew that hiding and invisibility was essential to surviving on the streets. I still remember that rat's name. Everyone called him Phillip after someone from the British Royals. We of the slums rarely kept up with the worldly events since our world, the slums, rarely changed because of them (not including bombs dropping on our heads, but that, thankfully, hadn't happened in the past few decades). Phillip had taken the name for his own and he was the only one in our clan with a name. He was a lean little fellow, barely taller than the rest of us so he easily passed off as a child.

Phillip taught us that to look directly at anyone was to initiate a challenge. The confidence and power it would have taken to hold one's head up in the slums, as if one mattered or was important, was a direct challenge to the meaner, more brutal people of our society. He taught us how to blend into the shadows of the streets, to appear nonchalant and unimportant. Indeed, everything he taught us all lent emphasis on the thing he believed would keep us alive the longest.

_Never attract attention._

Drilled into me further back than I can possibly remember was the notion that a person who never gained notice would live the longest years. To this day, even when I know there are times a person must attract attention and must look another directly in the eye, I despise attention-seekers. I utterly loathe anyone who marvels, revels, or basks in the glow of the perpetual spotlight. From my years of the street I saw this most often in the cocky and vain, those who were all talk and show with little to truly account for. If one was truly great, one did something and did it because it had to be done. There is no need to brag or deliberately attract the notice of others because of it - like a pompous windbag. That is just begging for someone to come along and stab the windbag in the back within some dark alley.

Anyone who draws deliberate attention — whether it be through silly antics, a display of intelligence, or some significant physical feat, for the deliberate reason of coaxing an already-bloated ego — should be hung from the Whomping Willow's treetop by his or her toes, and left there to rot for all of time.

Such would have been Lockhart's lot in life if, alas, discretion wasn't the better part of valour.

If being taught never attracting attention was the single most important thing I ever learned from the slums, then the second most important thing I learned was never trust kindness, generosity, or favours. There can be no reliance placed in any of these, especially from one of the slums' own. There is a price to pay for accepting such, and it is almost always too high to pay.

I often say the world is completely filled with morons, imbeciles, and selfish or ruthless persons. I would not lie and say the slums have none of that. The slums are, indeed, some of the best places in the world for prime examples of human wickedness. We show no kindness, for there is none to give. Gifts are traps meant to choke their victims to death. Favours are broken and promises never kept. I used to think if one ever gave someone else anything — affection, kindness, favours, or gifts — it was because one expected something back.

I still believe this.

Pandora Potter did the same as everyone else, giving one something and, naturally, expecting a generous return. Her selfishness was a class unto its own, however. She would give one generosity and affection and, though she claimed she never expected anything from it, one could clearly see that she fully expected a repayment in kind – the later passing of gifts in generosity and affection to another in equal need. Albus Dumbledore has the exact philosophy, and I often wonder which one of them got it from whom.

Whenever someone either gave Phillip attention or a gift or a favour, he would immediately pack up his tiny clan of gutter rats and haul us off to some unnamed area of London, usually an unknown alley that had neither name nor unique features. If we moved and it was not for any reason of a gift or favour, it was because of a threat. Really, there is no distinguishing between the three. It was through this moving did we come across Outer Diagon Alley, that area which surrounded Diagon Alley itself. It was not, however, known as Outer Diagon Alley to those of us of the slums. It was known as the Area of Supernatural; the title being droll, boring, unoriginal, and absolutely Muggle-like.

The rumours of a dark man and his gang of persons with hooded faces had entered our last area. A few years earlier the man had first appeared. He was dreadful and deadly, so the rumours said, because he killed with flashes of green wherever he was seen. No one understood how such a thing was possible, but the dark man had a terrible reputation for being a killer and such a reputation could not be ignored. No one knew his name then, but you and I both recognize this person as Voldemort.

No one ever hung around Outer Diagon Alley. The dark man refused to come near it so it made sense that it was the safest place for Phillip to take his little clan. However, it was too strange, too odd, because _things_ none could explain happened, such as people disappearing, voices coming from out of nowhere, objects moving when they should not. We were the only ones to occupy the area and others believed us foolish.

I, personally, thought the place to be simply fascinating, though it terrified everyone else. They may all be stupid Muggles but their life is hard enough with harsh reality without reality itself _changing_. Magic warps reality, and the more magic there is in any given area, the more reality is warped and distorted, and Outer Diagon Alley leaked like a sieve.

But I was always the strange one of the group, and even referred to as such. None of us had any names, only a distinct "You!" to tell us apart from one another or some horrid nickname gained only through a malicious prank or tease.

I begged, borrowed, and stole anything to learn how to read, for I felt that by reading I would escape the slums. Many of the beggars, poor souls who were usually mentally unstable through genetics or drugs, were educated to some degree. They were the ones who chose their street lives, but it's not a choice made easily, I assure you. Sometimes, these things just happen. My first reading lessons were from a man who complained constantly about the voices he heard telling him of the end of the world.

Because of my ambition to escape the world I grew up in my little clan believed me to be strange. After all, what would I find out there in the great big world? Who would welcome scum like me? What was the use of learning when it only made one yearn for more? Such greedy behaviour; it was dangerous, and learning often attracted drug dealers interested in a slum citizen who could possibly become a business contract.

Drug dealers meant gangs, gangs meant trouble, and trouble meant abrupt ends to gutter rats like myself.

Phillip did not try to discourage me. He looked at me with oddly wise eyes and said, "Ambition's a fuckin' bitch. It'll kill ye iffen ye go t' fer. Jus' be keen t' danger."

I think there was a bit of wizard in that gutter rat. It would explain his uncanny ability of disappearing in any way and at any place with more than half a dozen children on tow. He kept us clothed, fed, and generally safe. He was also not frightened of Outer Diagon Alley. At least not as much as others. If he was, he never showed the fear for our safety was always his first priority.

Having reached a temporary safe coven we scattered. We were off to scrounge for food, paired up one with another. I wanted to explore the area further, to learn why such odd phenomena happened. My partner, a boy with a long face missing half his teeth, refused.

I sent him off to join another pair and began my search of the Area of Supernatural. I fell in love with the place almost instantly. The way things shifted constantly as if they had a life of their own, the alleys sometimes warping shapes and even twisting about, voices that spoke of things ripe with wonder and information, all appealed to me.

I felt as if I truly belonged. This area begged to be explored and, if not reasoned with, understood.

Everything else was drab and ugly in comparison of the Area of Supernatural. The other streets, filled with sinister people and nightmares of cruel weather and wild animals were simply places I could not bring myself to ever go back; not after the wonderful world I had found. I knew, by the end of that first day of exploring, I had found an area I could use as a stepping-stone out of the slums.

But the Area of Supernatural was more than just that. I was filled with the need to know and to realize _why_ these things happened, _what_ made this place so wonderful. It was like a single piece of music that floats just beyond the reach, a tantalizing hint of a melody so sweet and so beautiful no one may fully comprehend its wonder.

Phillip must have understood how I was drawn to the area, hypnotized by its mystery if you would. Perhaps not why, but only that I was. He would shush the other children as they complained about my wandering off or never being about to help them look for food. He often gave me his share, knowing I was too caught up in the Area of Supernatural to find my own.

On the fifth day of our stay, I saw something that, above all other things, changed my life. Had I not been there to witness a pair of young witches opening the wall to the inside of Diagon Alley, had my mind not burned the image of their sequence of taps, I probably would have remained in Outer Diagon Alley, pining away to my death for the answers I so desperately sought.

And yet I was there. A nagging buzz in my mind drew me to the spot, a faint tug that held a promise I could not guess at. So it was that I saw the two women, one in her early adulthood with dark chestnut hair and the other about as young with her hair a light blonde. They chattered cheerfully, speaking of something called "Quidditch" and how Canada had a very promising team that would likely as not make it to the World Cup.

They did not notice me, tucked away in the shadows and projecting an aura of insignificance. I saw the one with light blonde hair tap out a complex sequence on the bricks and, before my quite stunned eyes, the bricks rearranged themselves into a doorway. The women slipped through the door and the bricks rearranged back into their right place. The sequence since has changed, as it no longer needs to be complicated. The surge of slums people though had caused the sequence to be changed and the only reason for such a surge was our frightened escape from Voldemort.

In the moment they had stepped over to the other side of the wall, I saw a whole different world awaiting. It was filled with a bustling crowd of people, cheerful and buoyant, dressed in all sorts of different colours and styles. The noise — the wonderful, magnificent noise of voices calling out the words that had attracted me from the very beginning — was almost drowned out by the bursting melody I had been so desperately searching.

I did not move, too surprised and stunned to react in any other way but stare. After several long moments I crawled away from my corner and stood up. My legs were weak and my head was light, but I was too giddy with delight to notice. The sight and the noise only fuelled my desire and need to know and understand what was going on.

I knew the answer to the Area of Supernatural lay beyond the wall. I did not dare try to open the wall for that concept frightened me. What if I did it wrong? What if it only answered to those two women? Instead, I silently piled junk against the wall; boxes and broken crates and bricks and garbage cans and anything else sturdy enough to hold my undernourished weight. It took me almost an entire day and none of my clan asked me why I was dragging a heavy wooden crate or rolling a barrel, only rolled their eyes and grumbled about how I was being stranger than usual.

There was _nothing_ on the other side of the wall but more alleys, much like the one in which I stood. My foul disappointment was bitter and sharp. Used to it I might have been, I hated such a feeling all the more. This is why hope is discouraged. One must abandon it in order to remain sane while living in the slums. I jumped down from my pile of rubbish and sat forlornly in its shadow. I wondered briefly if it was all just a worthless hoax.

But I refused to give up. One little setback was not enough to destroy me and force me to my knees where other gutter rats existed with their nonexistent self-esteem. As I was trying to think of retaliation to this situation, I heard footsteps. Remembering the two women from earlier, I shrank back into the shade of the rubble, out of direct view of any entering the area.

It was another pair of persons, but this time it was an older woman with a young boy. She was dressed in dark blue robes with a straw hat tied beneath her chin. Her hair, which had been black at one time, was iron grey then. Her hands were slightly twisted with age though her face was still smooth from wrinkles but for the fine lines around the corners of her mouth and eyes. Her body seemed compact still, shoulders not bent from time and life's burdens and her steps were springy. She carried herself well, and that was what alarmed me.

Phillip's number one warning, first and foremost in importance, was _do not attract attention_. Ways to succeed included not looking directly into another's eyes or carry one's self with confidence. This woman carried herself not only with confidence, but also with a strength that made me immediately envious; she could have been the Queen of England for all her regal bearing. She exuded such a raw power that I felt surely no one would _ever_ challenge her.

The young boy whose hand she grasped was somewhat taller than me. I would have said he was close to my age, but I never knew my true age, nor could I keep track of the years I spent on the streets. Suffice to say he _looked_ seven years old. His frame was lean, yet well nourished. His hair was as black as mine, and he wore a pair of wire-frame glasses. He was dressed in the same sort of robes as the woman's, but his were open to reveal trousers with patched knees. He carried himself well, but not with the dignity or strength the woman possessed.

The resemblance between the two was sharp enough that a stranger could make the assumption they were related to one another. It was the slant of the head, the curve of the jaw, and the line in which hair grew. As they drew close, the woman spoke. Her voice was brash and rough, as if she was used to being blunt and would soften for no audience.

"I'll not say this again, James," she said sharply. "I want you to actually _learn_ how to open the door here. You can't always use Floo Powder, and there are times when Apparating is out of the question."

"Yes, Grandmother," James replied in quiet humility, which even I could see was slightly feigned. I leaned back as the woman came to a halt before the doorway.

"You tap here," _thump_ "and here," _thump,_ "here, here, and here," _thump thump thump._ "It doesn't matter how slow or how quick you knock those bricks, but you need to keep a steady amount of time between them or they won't open. The timing must be deliberately even."

"Yes, Grandmother."

I heard the rumbling as the bricks shifted and knew the doorway had opened. Again I heard that wonderful noise of voices beckoning me to join them. In that moment, my heart stopped. It was not a hoax! I could do just that as well! They shuffled forth and were swallowed up into the wonders before the bricks slid back into place once more.

I jumped out of my hiding place and ran to stand before the bricks. I stared at them with both a mix of apprehension and wonder. In my mind, I again saw the young woman with light blonde hair raise her hand and knock several areas on the wall. I eyed the spots. If I stood on a box or a crate I could surely reach them. I hurried over to my pile of rubble and began to tug a crate free, then stopped. Did I dare enter that mysterious and magical world, for such was what it had to be? I was only a gutter rat, never to become much nor worth anything to anyone, expect perhaps Phillip, but even then he too may perhaps forget me in a single week.

But I _knew_ I had to enter. I knew I would sooner die than leave without knowing. With that resolve in mind, I pushed the crate over to the wall, stood on it, and stared at the bricks. I took a deep breath to still my shaking hands. I tapped on the bricks, but I hesitated on two, messing up the deliberate timing the woman claimed was needed. The second time I hit the wrong brick. But they say the third time's a charmer, and so it was the third time that I succeeded.

I jumped from my crate and eagerly pushed it out of the way before hurrying into this wondrous world.


	2. Magic Calling To Magic

_In which first impressions are always the most important, and James Potter does not impress Severus Snape in the least._

* * *

I cannot describe those first few moments in Diagon Alley amongst wizards and witches and surrounded by magic that tingled senses and tickled nerves. Imagine, if you can (your imagination lacks for nothing, I'm sure) what it is like to have spent your entire life in a state of half-waking half-sleeping. You are never fully awake, you function only minimally, and nothing seems real. You feel as if everything you do is barely acceptable and any effort placed into the action would be a waste even if should you have the energy to summon effort.

Suddenly you go from that state of being half-asleep into a state of hyperawareness where your senses expand to humongous proportions just to take in a fraction of your surroundings, and you feel so absolutely _alive_ and the universe stops spinning for just a moment so you may comprehend your environment.

That is almost like what those first few moments were, and so much more. For the first time in all my remembered life, I felt safe and was finally home. Can you understand that? After living on the streets around dangers that would snuff my life out without a single thought, moving place to place to stay one step beyond those dangers, this feeling was the most wonderful thing I have ever known. Since then there have been but very few incidents in my life that have come close to such a sensation.

The majority of the people did not seem to notice the dark shadow that hovered outside their midst. I floated around, awed with my surroundings. Everything was just so colourful and musical. Diagon Alley was crammed with stalls, people, boxes, and little animals that ran underfoot – not at all that much different from now.

Everything was a living entity with personality and character galore. The street and the buildings seemed to breathe with a special spark of life. Everything exuded exorbitance and energy, drawing in harmony and casting away chaos. It all seemed so bright and wonderful. It was not as if I had found heaven; far from it. There were people who jostled against me and yelled at me for being in their way, ignorant or uncaring persons who trod on my bare feet.

I sensed something extraordinary of this place though. It was special in ways I could not understand at the time, but marginally do now.

Magic was calling to my blood, singing to my senses and waking awareness in me for what others my age showed an aptitude towards. In those instances, I unknowingly went from being a worthless gutter rat that would likely never amount to anything, to being a wizard. Magic called to blood, and the blood answered.

I have no idea how far I wandered aimlessly or how much time I spent doing such. With the passage of Time, the wonder of the area wore off and I finally became aware of how _human_ it still was. Not all the noise could be considered pleasant, as rude words and insults rarely can be. I did not have money to buy anything I saw but, at the time, it mattered not as I drank in everything I saw, studying this strange and wondrous place.

I tugged at shirts and sleeves to point at an area and ask the person whose attention I demanded what _that_ was, or_ that,_ or _that._ Very uncharacteristic of me, to reach out to others, but the very magic in the air seemed to change my nature; it was all like a dream come true, a dream that I never realized before had haunted my sleep.

I learned of brooms and familiars and wands, as people deigned to explain, in different ways, what exactly I was pointing. Perhaps they thought this was my first time there and I was too excited at all things to stay with my parents and so had gotten separated from them. They tactfully refrained from saying anything of the rags I wore. Through the pieces of information I was given and the stray things I overheard, I pieced together enough to understand this wizard's market called. It was where one could buy any legal magical item, and quite a number of illegal items as well (but only if one knew where to look and whom to ask – you _will_ refrain from such behaviour in the future; I will not have you committing random acts of delinquency after learning of your great-grandmother).

I did not understand that the concept of magic was a foreign perception to the vast world. Still, the very term magic itself should have been strange to me. I had never grown up with stories of dragons and witches and mystical powers. One never had time to tell such tales on the street, let alone learn them. It was all very bizarre to me, but a special bizarre that I discovered a portion of the world everyone knew, but slum people never had a chance to see.

In the end, my bare feet could only take so much walking on cobbles and people treading upon them, so I finally slipped into a small enclosed café court where tables were shaded by blue and white checked umbrellas. I found a small corner where I would only be noticed through sheer chance and settled down to listen. It was not until I finally studied the sparse number of people seated about the tables did I realize the woman and her grandson from earlier were present.

I felt no cause for alarm though I was curious about them, if only because they were among the very first "wizards" and "witches" I had ever knowingly seen. James was seated with his back towards me and his grandmother directly across. Were James not seated so, I would have been in his grandmother's direct line of vision.

At the moment, James, along with two boys his age (a quiet one with light-coloured hair and one finger pressed uncertainly against his upper lip, and the other a brawny lad with black hair and rumpled clothes), pleaded to the woman.

"Please?" James asked continuously as the boy with the finger pressed against his upper lip remained silent, and the brawny boy rambling continuously about how the puppets were an educational factor in manipulating inorganic material with simple spells and beginner charms. The woman, for the most part, ignored the boys as she ate a bowl of peaches smothered in cream and sugar. My stomach clenched at the sight for I had not eaten in two days, but I ignored it.

After several minutes of the "Please, grandmother?" and the incessant rambling, the woman looked up from her peaches. She pulled a large watch from her pocket and peered at it.

"I expect you to be back within an hour," she said, tapping the watch's glass with one sharp fingernail. "Do _not_ make me come looking for you." James nodded his head vigorously in agreement, threw his arms around her for a brief hug, then scampered off with the other two boys as the brawny boy called out, "Thanks, Gramma Pandora!" The woman leaned back against her chair and sighed. She tucked her watch back into her pocket then looked directly at me.

There was no denying she saw me, and in that moment when her blue eyes, bright with awareness and a sharp cunning, settled upon me, I was filled with the urge to flee. She posed a danger, as anyone with such strength and confidence always did, and such danger habitually snuffed out the lives of insignificant gutter rats. Yet her eyes drew me inward. They pierced me to my soul and saw everything that I was, from being a gutter rat to being ambitious. It was as if my life was layers that surrounded me, and she stripped away and analysed every layer.

She lifted her arm, smooth and deliberate to lessen any alarm on my part. She gave me a 'come-hither' gesture and pointed at the seat James had occupied. I hesitated, wanting to run from this powerful woman, but I was also curious as to why she deigned to grant notice to one such as myself.

I told myself if she were to attack, I would duck beneath her and run. As well-fed as she might be, she was certainly as old as dirt and would be unable to keep up with one whose lifestyle demanded speed. By promising myself this, I summoned the courage to walk over to her table and climb into the seat. I warily peered at her as she pushed a bowl over to me. I glanced quickly at it and saw it was fruit like the one she was eating earlier. I eyed it for a moment then shot her a suspicious look. She sighed.

"My grandson," she said slowly, "has left me all alone. I ordered a perfectly good snack for him and I have no intention whatsoever to see it wasted. You look as though you might appreciate it." I still looked at her suspiciously, but when she withdrew a book from a pack sitting at her feet and began to read it, I decided she meant me no harm.

I slowly reached across the table to the bowl of peaches and cream, still watching her. I was ready to bolt should she have stirred from what she was reading, but to her credit the only movement she made was to turn pages.

I ate my peaches slowly, savouring the tangy flavour of peaches and cream, although it was…too sweet. I was not used to such a saccharine delectable, and I'm sure that amuses you to think of how I found something as simple as fruit and dairy to be too rich, too sweet.

I find it rather pathetic, myself.

Under the guise of the sweetness and the woman's indifference towards my presence, I felt myself relax. I had not realized how soon I had finished the rich dessert until my spoon hit the glassware. I glared at it accusingly, still hungry- always hungry. I dropped the spoon in the bowl, curled my arms around my stomach, and studied the woman before me. I did not believe she would appreciate my running away from her after she had just given me a gift, but I had to wonder why she would do anything for me. Why this kindness? Why this offering?

As she flipped another page of her book, I leaned close and squinted at the letters on the cover. My reading was still poor and I could not recognize most of the words. I mouthed each letter and the sounds they were capable of producing, but struggled against the hope of knowing what they meant.

"Powerful Potions from Ordinary Ingredients," the woman said absently. I jumped at the sound of her voice, then tensed. She did not look at me as she lifted her head from her reading. Instead, she held a hand up and waved. An instant later and someone wearing an apron of the same colours of the café hurried to her side. He bowed to her, shot me a look of pure malice that had my hackles rising in alarm, and then straightened with a pad and quill in his hand.

"Orange-spice tea," the woman said, "for myself, and one of your bacon sandwiches for my little friend here." She went back to her reading as the man scribbled down her order. With one last look at me, he hurried away. I knew why he expressed such dislike towards me. I was a skinny and filthy child, barely large enough to look over the edge of the table seated as I was, and dressed in grimy rags. Being served by _him_.

She did not _feel_ dangerous. On the streets, one's senses for danger are acute and I felt nothing more from the woman than the need to curl up against her and let her hold me. I wondered if it had something to do with the area I was within. Perhaps it was playing around with my feelings. She was not like the other older women I often crossed in the slums, the hookers and whores who would leer at a child and curl fingers eager to paw and poke. They just wanted to capture what pleasure they could as a customer rather than as the client they usually were. Despite how I knew this woman to be dangerous, I found such knowledge comforting. Because she would not let _other_ older women pursue such behaviour.

The woman closed her book and set it on the table between us. She leaned back against her chair, crossed one leg over the other, and folded her hands in her lap. Her blue eyes regarded me once more. I wiggled uncomfortably in my chair, wanting to run from her but also wanting to stay and bask in her attention.

She tilted her head to one side. "Where are you from?" she asked suddenly. I felt myself wilt at the words, regard having been miscalculated. Could she not tell I was a gutter rat just from my clothes and health? She sighed, as if understanding how difficult it was for me to explain I was from the slums. "Do you have a name?"

I wilted further down my seat. No name, unless "Hey! You!" could be considered a name. I was distinguished amongst the other children as the oddball, but beyond that there was nothing I ever called myself.

I heard her sigh and then mumble beneath her breath as if to convince herself: "I'll certainly _not_ ask of your parents."

The peaches in my belly turned into a sodden lump. I knew then it was time for me to run; in those words alone it seemed she knew everything about me. Ashamed, I leapt out of my chair and dashed across the café's little yard. I ran into the waiter who carried the woman's order, tripped him up as I dodged around his legs, and easily slipped into the crowd of people that filled the street outside the café.

Behind me, I heard the woman call after. "Boy! Boy! Come back!" She did not sound upset although I had clearly foiled her plans. _Well, forget it,_ I thought as I scurried through the crowds of people, slipping between legs and around small children. _You was nice and all, but you scared me._

I finally stopped running after so many twists and turns down separate little waysides, at the front of a small building where dummies wearing multi-coloured robes stood in the front window. I looked at them and then was filled with hate for everyone. Did they realize what it was like to live in the slums, nothing stable or dependable, not even having a name? What would they know about terror and dark men who killed with green light and drug dealers and people who violated others out of their own need to hurt and hurt and hurt someone who couldn't fight back?

The happiness I had known at being in Diagon Alley disappeared beneath the tidal wave of revulsion I had for every person I saw. It choked me, sending my senses spiralling higher to encompass all. I felt the body heat of every person who passed me, heard their happy words, and saw their bright cheerfulness. And then I became aware of something I had not noticed when I first entered the area.

This façade of cheerfulness hid something. My hate wavered somewhat as I felt a steady undercurrent of fear and terror, a reminder of whatever horrid thing that lay out there and would have to be faced when people finally left this refuge. I suddenly realized just how forced were the smiles and how false was the laughter. What was it that held these people in such a state of terror that _they_ would be so worried? I was filled with confusion and cared no longer to be there. I did not want to believe these people, living in their homes, tucked away from the horrors of the streets, with their steady lives and their names and their food, would be scared like a lost gutter rat.

I turned and fled, searching frantically for the wall through which I had entered. I realized I had no knowledge of how to escape and wondered if I were to be trapped in this strange world. I did not know what was worse: knowing that people were cheerful to cover their fright, or living in a place where the people did not know how to hide their terror.

Blinded by my panic (a mistake that could easily have killed me in the slums) I ran headlong into a stranger and the two of us became entangled. I struggled, biting and kicking, and it was when we had finally freed ourselves did I grasp control of my panic and recognize whom my opponent had been.

"Are you all right?" Without regard of my personal space, the woman's grandchild hauled me to my feet by my rags and thrust his face into mine. "Are you hurt?"

I saw my reflection in his eyes: greasy black hair standing on end and black eyes narrowed with suspicion. In his eyes, I saw him judge and condemn. I saw disgust and loathing, and he released me and scrubbed his hand against his shirt as if trying to rid himself of any disease he might have suspected me having.

From that moment onward, I despised your father.


	3. The Dark Man

_In which Severus Snape meets Lord Voldemort and gets a broom ride. Both of these are far more impressing than James Potter.  
_

* * *

"Leave off!" I cried, throwing myself beyond his reach. I crashed into James' brawny friend who had come up from behind. I kicked him in the shin as he dropped a hand down on my shoulder. As I fled once more, I saw the third boy, the quiet one. Both hands hung limply at his side, but I saw his gold-rimmed eyes. They did not condemn as James had, but held pity. Remus was never the type to condemn, but he understood, more than either James or especially Sirius, what it was like to be judged despite circumstances beyond the control of any mere mortal. Pity he lost that when he grew older…

I know all about pity and how easy it inspires within anyone who hurts at seeing us slum people live the way we do. I know I inspired pity with my too-large rags draped over a runty, skeletal body. I did not hate or despise those who pitied me, for it meant they felt bad for my situation – and feeling bad meant food given without the expectation of receiving something in exchange.

I did not look back as I ran. My heart pounded in rage at your father. I could not imagine why anyone who had the sort of grandmother as his could so easily judge and dismiss me for how I appeared. How selfish!

I judged people then, and now, for their unguarded actions. It is through their motions do I see the thoughts and emotions that mirror them and I understand, far more easily than what many would suspect, what sort of personality and character is revealed in those few unguarded moments. This allowed me to survive as long as I did; sensing others through animalistic instincts.

But in the end, how much different are we from animals?

There was always a sharp distinction between the slums people and everyone. Always a direct line drawn between us (the slums people) and them (the upper classes). There were common myths for us and them, and one of the myths of us is we brought our fate upon ourselves and one of the myths of them is they were happy and did not hurt like us. One thing for certain though, is that our worlds do not parallel one another. "Them" did not have the extremity of man's worst as "us" did. One could not afford kindness nor could one afford trust, if at all, to anyone but one's own clan. Even then, treachery was a common thing. It was not a rare sight to see gang members killing each other, or a gutter rat selling out its clan to a drug dealer searching for child prostitutes.

I cannot despise your father for the look in his eyes – but that hand? That unguarded moment, a tell-tale flag of the unconscious feeling and opinion, will always haunt me.

Perhaps I had been too hasty to judge, but on the streets one's first impression was usually what saved one from certain disaster. My overall impression of mankind was already a fragile thing. I thought everyone to be as selfish as myself (especially those who were fortunate enough not to live on the streets), and yet had no ambition to aspire to being anything greater than a gang leader or a drug dealer. I thought everyone to be cruel and desperate, looking out for their selves only, even if they pretended otherwise (like your great-grandmother). Although I merely loathed James, I hated, and still hate, Sirius.

So I fled the area, wanting to get as far away from those eyes as blue as the woman's, and yet unable to see me as she had seen me. I ran in random directions, not caring if I found the doorway or not, but only desiring to escape James and that hand. Through sheer luck, I saw the same pair of women who had inadvertently shown me how to enter through the brick wall standing again before another section of the wall. The blonde woman had her hand upraised and, as she finished the sequence and the bricks parted, I scrambled after them.

They noticed the darting figure that barrelled between them out of Diagon Alley and beyond. I heard one of them call out in surprise, but I ignored the sound. I scrambled through the ally, taking twisting turn after another twisting turn, ducking through holes in the walls and climbing over piles of rubble, until I at last reach the trashed-out alley where Phillip and the others were sleeping amongst the wooden boxes.

No one asked where I was, and no one asked why I remained quiet so long afterwards. I refused to go back to Diagon Alley or that area which lay closest. I told no one of what I witnessed, for none of them shared any sense of kindred with me. For the following few weeks, though the actual time is unknown to me, we lived within Outer Diagon Alley. I stuck close to Phillip, taking comfort in his rock-steady reality.

When I was with him I learned he had several contacts among other gutter rats; those who kept him informed of the more important slums politics. Phillip knew where gangs did not feud so much, which drug dealers should be avoided more than others, and where the dark man who killed with green light was last seen or was rumoured to strike next. I learned all this with him. We found out the dark man did not just attack the slums, but the upper classes as well, though rarely. However, it was strange the other classes would not acknowledge that the dark man killed with green light.

I later learned from Muggles that the idea was simply too ludicrous to be taken seriously. As Voldemort was too powerful and too evil to not be taken seriously, any mention of green light was played down. The Muggles believed the man to be a mad serial killer who held no pattern in his killings. We of the slums had no way of playing down the green light though. It is commonly said most of us are slightly crazy anyway. We did believe that, though the green light probably did not kill anyone, it undoubtedly had a lot to do with the identity of the dark man.

Phillip finally decided to move us again. We separated and followed each other through various alleys, spotting one another in crowds but never making contact. We penetrated deeper into inner London, into territories of violence and classes where the police rarely patrolled and the scars of the War's bombing existed still. When we finally established ourselves, I once more drifted away from my clan of gutter rats in search of learning.

I discovered a beggar who readily taught me to read if I gave him alcohol. I did (through means which I will certainly not share with _you_), and spent a great deal of my time with him. I would walk block after block, venturing into territories of class to snatch books and magazines and then manage to somehow carry them safely to the man. He expanded my knowledge on letters and sounds. His voice was soft and cultured and I forced my gutter accent to give way to his own.

I knew if I were ever to escape the slums, I could not be traced back to them (I would deny writing this to you, but I fear I shall not have the chance). I stressed my accent, forcing myself to speak slowly and pronounce the words fully lest I drop or slur sounds. I spoke softly to hide any accent I was unable to extinguish. I later learned there is a certain power in speaking slowly and softly. The idea behind a soft and slow-spoken person is a highly intelligent and educated being, one who holds himself in utmost control. It is an image I have spent many years cultivating.

I admit I am proud of such behaviour. My bitterness and sarcasm may be the result from living in the slums during the most impressionable part of my life, but I used such an attitude to my advantage by plying it with my cultivated appearance.

I am _what I made myself._

I had no help in it any more than what I have allowed, shaping myself with what I was given and how I wanted to become. Pandora Potter, James Potter, Albus Dumbledore, and Minerva McGonagall did not influence me in any way you may see. They may have, in a slight degree, guided my thinking and my attitude through suggestions and example, but most of what I am I created through my own efforts and ideas of what _I_ wanted to become.

Oddball I was; oddball I remain. My accent, vastly superior to my current peers, led me into a lonely life for the remaining time I existed in the slums. My clan knew I would leave the first chance I could and so any dependability I possessed dissipated. They knew they could not depend on me for help or steadiness. I did not care. I did not want to be tied to them, owing them favours and having to be responsible. Learning suited me well.

The rumours of the dark man who killed with green light was going to appear in the streets again filtered everywhere and Phillip warned us to be careful and to hurry directly to the Area of Supernatural should something happen. I was supposed to stay with my partner, but I preferred to be with the beggar who was teaching me how to read and my partner much preferred everyone else to me.

My last day in the slums began as usual, my partner and I rummaging through garbage. After finding an unopened can of beans, we bashed it open with a broken brick, ate our fill, and my partner scampered off to proudly share the remains with others. I had also found a bottle of whisky still half-full, and this I took straightway to my beggar.

As I scuttled to where my beggar camped out on a doorstop of a rundown building another clan of gutter rats lived in, I felt a prickling along my skin. I was instantly alert at it for it was a boding of some deadly danger. It was a sense of menace that choked me, filling me with confusion and panic. I could not withstand the feeling and I fled from the area, dropping the bottle of whiskey behind me.

I ran back to the area where Phillip and my clan stayed at nights and directly into a black-robed figure whose face was hooded. I tried to duck past and beyond the figure, but its hand grabbed my shoulder and jerked me back into its arms, which clamped tightly around my form. I tried to yell, and one hand covered my mouth to mute the sound. Green light flashed and I heard a horrid scream, filled with pain and terror.

Out of the green light emerged a man dressed in dark robes, and what a horrible man he was.

Harry, you have never seen Voldemort while he was at the height of his power. Any memory you might have had of him when he attacked and killed your family would have been him stripped of the majority of his power.

Personally, I have always found the way Voldemort fought against your family and always beaten one way or another bitterly amusing. It seems that, no matter what he does, there is a Potter to thwart him. Still and all, it is ironic that the family who would outwit him every time would also be the family he destroys so absolutely. Your parents and grandparents were slaughtered, your great-grandfather vanished with only blood to tell of his demise, your great-grandmother poisoned and disappeared without a trace, and you now constantly terrorized and threatened. But at any time you have seen him, Voldemort was never at his height.

He was called the dark man not only because of the black robes he wore at all times, but also for his black hair, his swarthy and twisted facial features, and his eyes. Those eyes which were liquid midnight: mysterious, iniquitous, and endless in their depths.

Pandora Potter's eyes were unusual, and not because her gaze was piercing. It was more than just that. When she saw things, she did more than just see at the physical level of any object she peered at. She was the sort of person who saw the mental and spiritual aspects of the physical object as well. She saw me not only for what I was, but also what I desired to be, everything of my past, and the potential of I would become in my lifetime.

I have only known three other persons whose eyes commanded the same quality of looking beyond the normal levels of the physical attributes of any object. These three are Albus Dumbledore, Voldemort, and you (on rare occasion only, and never when in Potions when it certainly would have been most useful!).

Yes, I admit you look beyond just the physical level of anything. It may be attributed from your great-grandmother's ability to, or the constant friction between you and Voldemort, or maybe the influence of Dumbledore. Perhaps it is all three of these. I do not say you look at something the way as Pandora Potter does merely to flatter you, as no Potter will ever amount to anything like the woman who accepted the name through marriage. Were I standing directly before you, I would not be telling this to you at all.

I only write this with the intent of it to be given to you upon my death (as you surely know by now as you read this), for it is your right to your heritage. That dimwit godfather of yours is incapable of telling you all that I know. It was I who followed the incidents of the Potter family for many years. I who stood as silent witness to even that which happened before my time. And now I pass it on to you, because I want to entrust the memory of the others to someone.

Even if it is just you. Especially, perhaps, you, for you are the new generation.

In that instant I gazed upon Voldemort, I knew this man was far more dangerous than anything I had ever seen before. He exuded confidence, strength, arrogance, and power beyond anything I have ever seen or perhaps ever will see again. Neither Albus nor Pandora could compare, but they had one thing Voldemort was never able to possess, and that was dignity. This man sold his soul to the Darker Powers That Be and, even to the untrained eye such as mine, I knew there was nothing natural about him.

He glanced at me with those penetrating, all-knowing eyes, and then looked away, uninterested in who and what I was. He sauntered gracefully about the alley, killing those slums people who desperately tried to hide from him. Had I been there earlier instead of going to my beggar, I would have undoubtedly been killed as the others were. Voldemort ignored me though, as if I were an insignificant little bug he meant to squash later. As he and other robed figures that surrounded him slowly began to walk down the alley rooting out those in hiding, I glanced down at the arms that circled around and held me close and still.

My eyes fell upon the black mark on the left arm of the person. It was a skull with a snake for a tongue, black and hideous and, to me, absolutely terrible. Gang members often scared themselves in a likely fashion, packing dye into carved lines and cuts for distinguishing colours and designs. I knew from my experiences on the street that this mark was a habit used to distinguish individuals to one another as mutual members.

I also knew then that whatever I did in the future depended on my escape. Well and all, since I was quite skilled with doing so as a gutter rat, but I was frozen in terror, my mind numb from the onslaught of black magic and sadistic joy at the death of innocents.

I used to wonder why I was kept alive, caught in the confusion by a single Death Eater, instead of killed immediately. They had no way of telling whether I would be a good wizard or not, or even if I was one. But after I joined the Death Eaters, I learned why.

If a single Death Eater spoke out for a likely target, everyone would then and there accept that target for a later time. A later time, that is, for play.

Harry, if you think the Death Eaters' methods of killing are gruesome, then hope a group that wishes to play with you never takes you alive. They do not kill their playthings and by doing so that makes what they have inflicted upon their plaything so much worse. There are fates worse than death, and psychological torture has always done greater damage than physical torture. It is not the pain that is inflicted; it is the wait and the knowledge of what will be done, what is being done, and what has been done. The experience can compare, but the human mind contains cruel capabilities beyond your imagination.

The Death Eater who held me lingered behind the others, so when Voldemort and his lackeys had gone so far into the alley, I took a chance to escape.

Here's a helpful little tidbit for you, Harry. The human jaw is the strongest joint in the entire body. The pressure you can apply with your molars may easily reach up to 136 kilograms while your incisors and canines have a pressure of about 77 kilograms.In a fight, one of the best ways to win or escape is to bite as hard and as fast as one can. This is something every slums person knows (not the mathematics, but the use biting has in a fight, since the exerted pressure is generally substantially more than you personally weigh).

I bit the hand covering my mouth and tasted blood as the skin broke. Just as I knew it would, the hand released me and I heard the Death Eater curse viciously. I slipped past the person and ran as fast as I ever had before in my life as far away from the alley as I could. After a moment, I heard the person whom I had bitten take chase after me and felt the magic sizzle over my head as spells whizzed past.

I was desperate and frightened; anyone in my position would have been, and many perhaps were frozen in their fear. We of the slums are not religious people. What sort of loving god would leave us to our harsh worlds in the slums, trapped by human wickedness? But as I ran, I found myself praying to whatever deity who was listening, be it evil or good. I would have sold my soul to get out of that terrifying situation had I known a way to do it. Perhaps I did. And perhaps the days in which my soul is collected is fast approaching me.

Who would have thought someone was listening to my prayers?

I was a mysterious agenda to your great-grandmother, and if there was one thing that Pandora could not stand, it was something for which she had no explanation. I, a little wretch from off the streets, dressed in my rags and looking (rightly so) as if I had never had a proper meal in my life, had shown up out of nowhere. Obviously, I was not a wizard's child as I did not recognize anything and because wizards knew simple charms to keep clothes clean and in fairly good shape. Diagon Alley was not a place that contained slums or where people lived in the back alleys, homeless and poor. So how did I enter the wizards' market and where did I come from?

There could only have been one answer, and that was I was a wizard — Muggle-born perhaps, or a wizard's get abandoned out of fear because of Voldemort's rise in as a dark lord — drawn to Diagon Alley by its magic. Faced with that conclusion, Pandora very well could not leave me behind, abandoned still. She had a soft spot for children, and a great weakness for those greatly abused by the Fates.

In my haste to get away from Voldemort, I quite literally ran into Pandora without realizing it. To my credit, she was using her husband's invisibility cloak (the very same one that she later gave James, which has since passed on to you – just where hell did you get it, by the way? Oh, I know you've been up to no good with it. Typical of you to misuse it for your nefarious misadventures). The Death Eater who had been chasing after skidded to a halt as Pandora drew me into the cloak's hidden folds and shushed me with a gentle hand over my mouth and quiet words of warning.

I remember thinking how sweet she smelled, so unlike the rotten filth of the gutters and back alleys where garbage and refuse heaped. I also remember wondering if I had gotten myself into a worse situation. However, when she next spoke, her husky voice rising from deep in her chest as she extended a hand from the depths of invisibility, I recognized her.

"Go back," she said loudly, "go back to Riddle and tell him I have sought this child and will not easily give him up." The words should have frightened me; I do not take kindly to someone claiming possession over what is mine, especially when it is _me_.

But she smelled sweet, and she had shown me a moment's kindness. For that, I would follow her long enough to learn what she wished to do with me. You should note your great-grandmother spoke not of Voldemort, but of Riddle. The Death Eaters accepted it as a nickname, assuming, I imagine, that Pandora believed Voldemort to be a mystery. There is a reason behind this, but one that will be explained within due time. I stray enough from the current subject by trying to explain certain points that otherwise elude your base understanding.

Also beneath her invisible cloak was a broom. I shall not say anything about my first ride on it other than it being a rather humiliating memory of my being terrified of floating off the ground and how Pandora reluctantly cast a body-binding spell on me to prevent any panic-induced aerodynamic accident.

A witch or a wizard who flies over a Muggle-populated region will be fined by the Ministry of Magic should he or she be caught. However, flying over the city at night while wearing the invisible cloak assured there were no witnesses to Pandora's transgression. The city areas I had known and lived in looked only beautiful from a far off distance in the sky, when everything is too dark and too shapeless for one to see the actual filth.

And before I write anything else let me just warn you here, Harry: If you ever, and I do stress _ever,_ fly in the city in full view of Muggles, even if it is night and even if you are wearing your invisibility cloak, I shall gut you with that Firebolt broomstick of yours and then feed your entrails to Hedwig. Understand?

As we flew over the city, the movement stirring our clothes and hair, Pandora spoke casually of how she sought for me in the slums, knowing my dress and manner being that of a gutter rat or a street urchin. At the time I felt insulted. I may have been the lowest of the low, but I had always prided myself in avoiding the life of a cutpurse. Remember, no matter how bad life treats you, there is never the need to take what belongs to another person's belongings to ease your own suffering as that person may not afford the loss.

If I did not like it when someone took what belongs to me, then I certainly would not inflict it on another. (Food being an exception to the rule here, of course. In that, it's every man, woman, or child for him- or herself.)

But I felt safe in Pandora's arms. It was as if I had found my mother at long last, who was taking me away from the slums to a world of nice things. Indeed, that was exactly what happened. From the definite way she spoke, I knew Pandora Potter had absolutely no intention whatsoever of releasing me from her grasp. I was right where she wanted me to be and, even should I not have been a wizard, she still decided I was in need of a good home. She did not directly ask me any questions so I volunteered nothing of myself.

Please make sure to keep your mouth closed in your incoming surprise with this next earth-shattering revelation, as I do not enjoy the thought of your drooling upon my careful writing.

And thus did I become, in essence and through Pandora's deeds, your uncle.

It is not something I readily brag about.


	4. Francis and Pandora Potter

_In which Severus Snape describes Harry Potter's eccentric great-grandparents._

* * *

They say within every person there is the virtue of greatness. And not just any greatness, but a marvel to supersede all other marvels that ever came before that one person. There are many different forms of greatness. There are multiple ways one may become famous and powerful, remembered and popular, or just filthy rich. All are forms of greatness and are the most popular of many I could list but do not have the time nor inclination.

Voldemort achieved greatness. Oh yes, there was no denying that he is, perhaps, the most powerful wizard of my generation. It is often said he rivals even Merlin in power, although I doubt this as no one alive can honestly make the comparison by having known Merlin. Even as Voldemort exists now as mere shadow of what he had once been now, possessing only a bare trace of his power, he is still a force to be reckoned. The means and measures he made and took to learn what he did to make himself into what he desired is one of the reasons why he is so connected to the Potter family.

You know so little of your family; it is tragic, really. Few today could tell you of your illustrious bloodlines, for such is what they are. Fewer still may explain certain aspects of which one could be proud. I am the only person to know all that I write. Sirius and Remus both know many things you would perhaps find interesting; little tales Pandora recited to them and James and myself over mugs of hot apple cider in the evenings or on winter days too cold to do anything destructive outside. But I, because Pandora adopted me as her son (though she made it known she considered me a grandson and James' brother), thoroughly learned about the lineage of both the Potter family and the family into whose name I was adopted.

You, far more than anyone else living today, have the right to know these things. Mind you, there is a great amount of knowledge I cannot place on this paper as I have not the time for it. Thousands and thousands of separate, meaningless things that broaden the scopes of knowledge and understanding of your heritage. I shall do my best though, come what may, to explain the major gist of your family history.

Francis Potter was a Gryffindor who fell in love and married Pandora Snape the Slytherin. She was the last of an old family whose pure bloodlines and wealth could be traced further back than the beginning of the ancient Roman Empire's reign. It is a standing joke in the Potter family (one you never heard before) that Pandora Snape married Francis Potter for his invisibility cloak.

Francis Potter was, in a single word, a genius. He was Muggleborn but there are none outside of Voldemort and his rabid pureblood minions who would insist Francis' talents were not welcome in the wizarding world. He was a brilliant man who invented several spells and magical items we wizards and witches use in our every day life now. The patents are some of the reason for your family wealth, only helping the substantial family fortune of the Snapes.

More than fifty years ago, Francis built the first blueprint for the Firebolt, but because it was so advanced and too astounding in its utter brilliance no one could physically produce it. Pandora donated the blueprints to a company after his death, which used to draw upon the elements to produce lesser models of brooms up until recently, when they finally understood the precision with which the Firebolt was to be created. No one knows _why_ he even created the blueprints in the first place, since Francis was deathly afraid of heights and swore up and down that flying would be the death of him. It was, of course, the death of _his_ father, but that is a tale for another time.

Francis Potter also rediscovered the old magic of creating invisibility cloaks, as the spell could only be found in the Invisible Book of Invisibility (written, I am quite sure, by one of Neville Longbottom's ancestors) long after everyone had forgotten the fundamentals of such magic.

He and Pandora made a beautiful pair. He was a highly unusual Gryffindor because of those brains; most people claimed he should have belonged in Ravenclaw. However, a person is selected and sorted into different Houses for that one characteristic which stands out above others.

Ravenclaws are smart, but Pandora had a cunning that was sheer Slytherin. Her slyness and the ever-knowing gaze all seemed to compliment this cunning. It would not have been a surprise that she would have wound up in either house as her family had always, throughout the generations, produced Slytherins and Ravenclaws. Francis was a Gryffindor because the two aspects stronger than his genius were his loyalty and leadership. The Sorting Hat knows and sees that which exists within a person's mind and heart. It uses this to place a person in the House to cultivate those characteristics to greatness so deserved.

I swear that thing has a sense of humour though, as I am still trying to figure out how in the name of all the Dark Arts _Neville Longbottom_ wound up in Gryffindor…

Francis and Pandora complimented one another; they made a wonderful couple. She was sly and cunning, and he was a very dependable and loyal genius. Together they created a powerhouse that could have defeated Voldemort.

This was why Voldemort, known then as Tom Riddle, showed up on their doorstop one day after he graduated. I believe he was over twenty years of age at the time. He told them he sought the best to learn from, and the Potter couple was, indeed, the best. There was no denying that when Francis and Pandora decided to do something together, they would do it with a quality exceeding the actions of those who tried, if at all, before. Nor was this request of leaning considered unusual, as the Potters often took in those requesting the honour of learning from them. They believed information was meant to be shared with all.

Mind you, I am merely saying what I know _of_ Francis, as I had never met the man while he was alive. Both Pandora and Francis were about ten years older than Riddle and already had three children attending or close to attending Hogwarts. Pandora held a masters in Defence Against Dark Arts, and Francis… That man studied and experimented with everything but Quidditch. He was varied in the things he studied and learned.

But for all of his intellect, Francis was also as thick as brick as he inherently trusted mankind to be generally good and kind. Pandora, when she spoke of him, tenderly called this trust of his, "naivety." It was through this thickness that Francis was tricked by Tom Riddle and eradicated a single year after they took in Riddle. No one knows exactly what happened; Pandora last saw Francis alive as the man departed for his attic workshop. When she sought him out because he missed lunch (not an unusual thing, given how caught up and distracted he could be with his experiments) and dinner (by that time his blood sugar would have dropped low and he would have been bumbling blindly into walls in search of nourishment) she found to her horror only his blood.

It had pooled in his workshop, and the bloody trail led to the stairs. From there, the blood had dripped down the entire length of the second story flight of stairs. No body was ever found and it was only through various medical charms was the blood confirmed to be Francis'. In the nearly fifty years since, Francis' body was never recovered and buried beneath the headstone his wife and children erected on the first anniversary of his death. Pandora was shattered by the loss of her husband and I regret that such brilliance came to an early end.

It was not until Tom Riddle emerged fully as Lord Voldemort and also killed her three children did Pandora finally make the connections. It is highly likely Tom Riddle killed Francis, as the man slowly set himself up to be a terror many years before he set out to dominate the wizarding world.

But for a few years after Francis' mysterious demise, Tom Riddle stayed with Pandora, learning what he could from her about the Dark Arts. From what I understand, Voldemort, as Tom Riddle, had been a very charming and handsome man and Pandora trusted him during those years. He had loaned her a shoulder for support, helping her through the crippling loss while her children were away attending school and coping in their own ways.

I believe, even as Voldemort, Pandora continued to hold a sort of fondness for Tom. She refused to ever refer to Tom Riddle as Voldemort and would frown at her grandsons when she heard us call him Lord Voldemort.

Pandora expressed to both James and myself how much further Tom Riddle could have gone through kindness and quietly seeking glory rather than through terror and cruelty. With his charismatic subtlety, he could have won the hearts of the wizarding world and they, on a whole, would have handed him the world with love and admiration should he have demanded it. She tried hard to turn him from the path he chose years afterwards, even knowing full well that _he_ knew he had gone too far to turn back.

It should be noted that Pandora did not teach DADA for a living. She possessed a masters in that subject merely because it allowed her to legally study and experiment with the Dark Arts. I suspect the desire to meddle with the Dark Arts was an important part of her Snape heritage, and one had to be skilled in the Dark Arts to understand the best ways to counter them. Pandora was, perhaps through learning what Francis discovered, the most skilled person in Dark Arts that anyone legally could be (and very adept at many of the illegal arts as well). During the time of the Death Eaters and their employed dark spells, I remember her gathering together neighbourhood children to be taught Defence Against Dark Arts. It is interesting to note these children would later become Aurors - the best of their generation.

But after three years, Pandora finally had to refuse Riddle any more upon learning he was participating in summoning demons and forbidden creatures of the darker lore that even she dared not practice or learn of in detail.

He left then, swearing vengeance against her family, and though Voldemort would rise to power in but a few years after that when he came back from wherever he went, Pandora ignored his threats. By that time, the Order of Merlin had offered Pandora a membership.

Now, you may or you may not have heard of the Order of Merlin. Perhaps the name itself is familiar as it is also the name of an award of recognized valour, in which the Order of Merlin recognizes those individuals who performed a deed that stopped or kept someone or something from being a terror. However, the name also derives from a group of people dedicated to keeping power in check and protecting the wizarding world from destruction. On a whole, the Order protects the wizarding world from the copycat terrors, muddling fools who would do more harm through their ignorance than through their ill intents, destructive dark lords, and monsters galore that tend to run rampant where you least suspect it (oddly enough, the majority of these monsters go on their ramparts through Asia).

Few wizards and witches ever become skilled enough to receive an offer to join the first class of the Order of Merlin. It has a long history, dating back to the times of the druids. Indeed, much of the knowledge the members of the first class pass to one another is druidic lore, an art of magic too subtle for the average witch or wizard. Very little of the first class is known to the lay magic-user, but I, as grandson to Pandora, remember what she had explained.

I imagine you would say something here about how the Order of Merlin, with their duty to protect the world from dark lords, was not doing its job when Voldemort began his reign of terror. That is not so for the members _did_ try their best to fight him, but none were strong enough. The only first class members within a thousand kilometres of the area Voldemort tormented the most were Pandora and Dumbledore.

Dumbledore remained at Hogwarts, where students — the future blood of the wizarding world — would be protected and trained. Voldemort would not wage an attack to that area, for the magic interwoven in the school and Dumbledore himself are unknown factors of power Voldemort does not trust to go against and hope to win without suffering too great of a loss.

I would often remember spending whole days at Dinsmore alone with James because Pandora had learned of Voldemort attacking someone and she would Apparate to the area. Voldemort would not fight Pandora and, except for that one attack, the attack that probably cost her life, Pandora never directly fought against him after her children were slaughtered. Her presence alone assured the safety of others, for he would stop his attack and leave. I suspect Pandora had a nasty Gryffindorish habit of jumping in front of spells, and Voldemort would rather bow out and leave, rather than having to lose face by arguing her out of his way. Perhaps he that was his own way of playing with her, as the Death Eaters would have played with me had I not escaped.

I greatly disliked your father, my brother through law and through the tender care of Pandora, but make no mistake I also loved him in my own way. I sacrificed some of the most precious things I have ever known for James; not just because he was a brother and because Pandora loved me for it, but because of that love. An odd thing, this love. Mutual with my dislike, coexisting and always conflicting.

The first words (as you know) he ever spoke to me were, "Are you all right?" The next words he said to me were, "What are you doing here?" James, when he grew older, never believed that the first impression was the best impression.

Having flown across the British countryside through the cold night air, exhausted after the initial burst of adrenaline from the attack of the Death Eaters, I was too tired to say anything when Pandora and I finally landed at the front of a large cottage with a sturdy brick fence surrounding it. This property, built on a hill surrounded by large oak and black walnut trees, was the old Snape property Pandora had inherited from her father. Everything was kept in excellent shape; the clothes, food, and furniture were of the highest quality that could possibly be attained.

Pandora did not believe in keeping servants and through this she taught James and me how to be self-sufficient and skilled at domestically caring for ourselves. James, at the tender age of six (for he was not seven at the time as I had suspected), already knew how to prepare simple meals and clean up after himself because of Pandora's Apparating to Voldemort's presence. He often stayed up at night, waiting for her to come home and tuck him into bed regardless of the hour.

As Pandora pulled me into the kitchen, lighting a single brace of candles at the table before shoving me on to a chair, James wandered into the kitchen. His black hair stuck up in all directions and he wore a long white nightshirt with a cream-coloured baby blanket clutched in a fist. He saw Pandora first as she moved to the small cupboard where bread and cheese were stored.

"Hullo, Grandmother," he said with a yawn. Pandora nodded quietly in return and set a sesame bun and a lump of cheese in front of me before attending to her broom and cloak. James' eyes grew wide at seeing me. That was when he said, "What are _you_ doing here?"

I, remembering the slight he had given me at Diagon Alley, glared at him before hungrily eyeing the food I had been given. Pandora answered his question saying: "He is going to stay with us. Be polite."

"_Who_ is _he_?"

I learned James had the Potter mouth, wide and expansive, capable of great volume and the occasional spittle. He spoke brashly, often without thinking about his words. At that question, I felt my dislike for him grow. I was a gutter rat; I had no name, and I was ashamed to acknowledge this to strangers. But even Pandora glanced at me questioningly I shrunk down within my rags, and Pandora finished storing her broom in the closet where others were kept.

"Severus," she said decidedly. "Severus is your name." I looked at her suspiciously, not knowing why she would name me thus. I still wanted to know what she expected in return. She looked at James. "He looks like Da, doesn't he?" she asked. She swept my tangled hair back from my eyes. "Eat." She pointed at the food again. I stared at it. She sighed.

"What is he?" James asked as she sat down beside me and tore the bun into chunks. She held a chunk out to me. I warily accepted it after a moment and she waited until I had consumed it before handing me another chunk.

"He is your brother," she said. James looked both appalled and shocked, no longer tired, which no doubt mirrored my own expression. He padded across the kitchen floor to her and wordlessly climbed into her lap. Pandora said nothing as he wiggled about until he was comfortably seated, then cradled his head against her breast. The look he gave me was one that proclaimed _Mine._ He did not appear sulky or disappointed at the idea of having to share her but, in that moment, he was clearly staking his ownership. I hated him for having someone to claim.

"He has black hair," James said. "And dark eyes like Da."

We said nothing more about anything until I had finished eating all that Pandora gave me. After that, she pulled both of us up to the bathroom. That night, I had my first bath. To be clean is like nothing I could ever explain. To be rid of the slums' stench was a miracle, and I was scoured bloody red.

James made a face at seeing the bath water drained several times over, but I cared not. I enjoyed the feel of Pandora scrubbing my hair multiple times with shampoo before finally resulting to heavy liquid dish soap and charms for removing the dirt and vermin from of my hair. She silently left the room to let me wash the rest of myself, although it was certainly not private with James watching, judging, and condemning without words.

After hours of scrubbing and rinsing, Pandora finally deemed me clean enough to lie beneath the sheets of any of her beds. She led me to your father's room, rummaged through his drawers before coming up with a nightshirt much like the one he wore, and pulled it over my head. Warm and drowsy from the fresh bath and food, I had no intention of running away during the night and Pandora, with her penetrating eyes, saw this.

"We have no prepared beds for Severus," she explained to James, as she led me over to the four-poster bed with rumpled covers, "at least not until tomorrow night. Severus will have to sleep with you for the time being. You do not mind, do you?" The look she gave him said even if he did mind, it would not change the situation. There was something else on her face, something that I can only describe as sorrow.

James also looked at me with this sorrow before nodding. "I can show him the loo if he needs to use it," he said. Pandora kissed his forehead, tucked us both snugly under the covers, left a candle safely lit at the bedside, and departed. I then discovered James had the nasty habits of hogging the covers and the pillows, snoring, and kicking. I might add here that it only furthered my dislike for him because, at the time, I felt he did all this because he disliked me as much as I disliked him.

The bed itself was too soft for me to sleep on comfortably, used to the street floors that I was. After being kicked the third time by James, I finally pulled the top blanket off the bed and curled up in the corner with it to fall asleep. That was where Pandora found me the next morning when she came to awake the two of us.


	5. Family Portraits

_In which Severus Snape meets the other family members (as it turns out, the eccentric Francis and Pandora Potter were... normal, in comparison)._

* * *

I heard Pandora approach the bedroom. I sat upright as the bedroom door silently swung open and she entered the room. She faltered upon seeing me huddling in the corner beneath the heavy blanket, but said nothing. Instead, she lifted the blanket from me, folded it, and set it on the foot of the bed. She sat down beside James, who was sprawled over the bed surface, his foot dangling over the edge with his hands flung upwards and the blankets bunched around him. She gave me a devious smile before vigorously rubbing the bottom of his foot. James snickered, kicked free, and then rolled over. 

Pandora had a morning ritual of tickling James awake. He was very ticklish; something both Sirius and I took a great delight in, as the only mischief we ever agreed on was to ambush James and rake our fingers up his sides and behind his knees. Your father was good-natured about the tickle attacks, something I respected him for because I certainly would not have been as gracious were it me in his position. I never did find out if Pandora ever meant to tickle me awake. I tended to be awake and alert by the time she finished her morning toiletries.

Having thus awakened James, Pandora dragged the two of us down the kitchen. She made small talk as she wandered about the kitchen preparing sausages and waffles for us. I will not go into detail about the things we did that day together in an effort to familiarize me with my new home. James did try to be polite and cordial, but he soon become bored with showing me everything he had grown up with and took for granted. By the time afternoon had rolled along I already knew where the more important things and places were, and for what they were used. As Pandora set about preparing the evening meal, James ran off to play with Remus and Sirius.

I was fascinated with the family portraits that hung all over the walls everywhere in the cottage, and spent a great deal of time looking at all of them. They moved, and even as a gutter rat I knew this was abnormal. But like all things magical, I loved them.

Very few of the portraits have anything to do with what I tell you though; merely five. I explain because these are the portraits of those who died long ago, nearly all at Voldemort's hands. They are your family and what I know of their personalities. Through this, you also learn more of your family lineage and their fates wrought by Voldemort's actions.

Your immediate family history, such as it is, is written in spilt blood.

First is Francis Potter, your great-grandfather, painted only a few weeks before his untimely demise. He had turquoise-coloured eyes, rumpled straw-coloured blond hair, and the most abstract expression. He puttered about in his frame, absently tinkering with one thing or another. I watched as he created various machines using only base objects such as straws, hairpins, and rubber bands. He noticed me after I gazed at him for a long while, and inquired after me.

"I'm Severus." I was used to the idea of having a name, and was shocked to tell someone.

He scratched his head in puzzlement as he gazed down at me, his eyes magnified from the thick lenses of his glasses. "Are you one of James' friends?" I did not know how to answer that, though Pandora had already referred to us a few times that day as brothers. "I have seen you before, yes?" Francis squinted at me over his glasses. "The name is familiar."

"Grandmother named me." Such was what Pandora insisted I call her, but I always preferred her given name, and referred to her within my mind. There have been times, over the years, when I would slip and refer to her as Pandora within her presence. It would earn me a stern look, but never a scold or correction.

Francis brightened up. "Ah, you must be a neighbourhood child!" I learned later, as I always did, that Pandora was Grandmother to everyone under the age of thirty.

"No. I'm a gutter rat that Grandmother rescued. Someone named Riddle was attacking us."

A look of worry flashed across Francis' face as he fiddled thoughtfully with the frames of his glasses. "When did this happen?"

"Last night."

"Ah. Uh. That can't be good." He sat down, forgetting about me. He pulled out a thick sheaf of papers and began to furiously write something down upon them, chewing his bottom lip the entire time. This, I later learned too, was what he did with any curious thing he found. He was not a man who believed in the Pensieve. Instead, he wrote down everything he knew and eyeballed the information for any emerging patterns.

I once came across Pandora conversing with Francis in the picture. She kept her hand pressed against the frame as she spoke as if she could reach through it and touch him, flesh to living flesh. The portrait is not the same as the reality, and her heart ached even for so much of that simple reminder.

I would that Remus or Sirius take you to Dinsmore to see all those magnificent family portraits, especially Francis', but that will never happen. On the eve of your parents' death, Voldemort burned the place down in rage and sorrow. I shall return to that later, for four more portraits remain.

Three were Pandora's and Francis' three children: your great-aunts and grandfather. Anastasia and Edwina were twins, the first to be born. Both entered Ravenclaw as they had inherited a hint of their mother's cunning, a dash of their father's genius, and, unfortunately, a great deal of Slytherin sarcasm. Their portraits sat side by side, and were it not for the nametags at the bottom of the frames I never would have been able to tell them apart. Indeed, they often switched frames to deliberately confuse me. James and Pandora both had little trouble telling them apart. For myself, I never learned who was really who.

I gave them a passing glance as I wandered down the hall, staring with awe at all the other frames. When I heard giggling, I turned and looked at them. They both hid their mouths behind hands and exchanged glances.

It should be noted here that Snapes usually have black hair, blue eyes, and are short with compact bodies. I have seen, through the family portraits scattered throughout the entire house, there were very few exceptions. Pandora's colourings were that of the Snapes and her children inherited this, as did you but for those green eyes. Gone, it seemed, when the short and compact bodies as the Snape bloodline emerged with the Potter name. The children and grandchildren had inherited Francis' height and lean structure. Harry, it would appear that you have your great-grandfather's leanness, but your great-grandmother's shortness.

But the twins, as I said, had a great dose of Slytherin sarcasm and could be almost cruel in their teasing.

"Oh look!" whispered Anastasia excitedly, or so proclaimed the portrait's name label, "it's a little rug rat!"

"No, it is not," replied Edwina loudly, "it's the rat Mum rescued from the gutter."

Anastasia shrugged. "Should there be a difference between the two? A rat is a rat is a rat. Unless it's a mouse. But one merely uses different sized traps for them."

"And bait," Edwina added. "Do not forget the bait."

I was curious about them; enough that my curiosity overrode my desire to flee. I approached them slowly, and, as I did, they fell silent and watched me. It is difficult to be suspicious of portraits; surely, what danger could they posses if they cannot come out of the frames and strike at you? Alas, I now know the dangers of the wagging tongue.

Anastasia giggled. "You're a handsome lad," she said in the same tone of voice any matron of any family would use before she pinched the cheek of the family member she cooed over. She is the only person in my entire life to ever call me handsome.

Edwina sighed. "Be nice, sister," she said, "can't you see how you intimidate the little mousy rat?"

I bristled at that. "She doesn't!"

"It speaks!" Edwina gasped in mock astonishment. "And here I thought the cat had snatched his tongue!"

I, being the ever-helpful lad I was, stuck my tongue out at them. It was only to prove the cat had not snatched it. Edwina stared at it for a moment, then crossed her eyes and stuck her own tongue out at me.

Anastasia did not seem to notice. "We never had a cat," she said. "Although I would have to say I would have very much liked a cat. Mum wouldn't because she said she didn't want to learn how it had eaten little Oliver's pet raven." After a moment, she twisted about to see Edwina and me making faces at one another, trying to out-do each other in absurdity. She reached over into the other frame to poke Edwina. Her sister jumped at the contact. "The least you can do find out what the rat's name is."

"Don't call me that," I said. The twins gave me measured looks. I shuffled my feet in James' shoes. "I don't like being called a rat. My name is Severus."

"He's certainly a severe little snapdragon," Edwina said suddenly. The twins giggled again. I was trying to think of a witty retort when Francis popped his head into Anastasia's frame.

"Girls, I have something to — oh, hello young man!" Francis gave me a smile. I scowled at him. Upon seeing my unhappy expression, he glanced at the twins. They looked away with knowing smirks and he frowned. "Have we not said you are not to disturb the visitors of the household?" he inquired. I decided to leave. As I hurried away, all three of them called goodbye to me. I never lost that nickname. The twins always referred to me as their severe little snapdragon after Pandora adopted me under the Snape name (you do this or even _think_ of telling anyone and I shall place a _very_ nasty hex on your broom). I carefully kept away from them whenever Sirius was about Dinsmore. Pandora found it amusing, as did Francis, but neither, thankfully, referred me as such either.

The fourth portrait is that of your grandfather, Oliver. He had the Snape complexion and hair, but Francis' turquoise eyes. They were unusual eyes for they darkened dramatically when his emotions ran high. He was not like the twins in the least.

What is it about twins, by the by? It seems they are always the most troublesome pairs of persons. Double the trouble and all that, but I often find myself wondering if being a twin is a genetic thing which immediately guarantees the two persons to be the most obnoxious beings within existence. No? Then consider the Weasley twins, and then you may understand what I mean. While perhaps the Weasleys are the extreme, to be sure, but all twins I have met are deliberately troublesome. And, yes, that includes the Patil twins.

While Francis was absent-minded, Pandora cunning, the twins sarcastic and playful, and James carefree but brutally honest, Oliver was exceedingly quiet and thoughtful. I always believed it odd how different each member of the family was in comparison with one other and each other, but every member was commonly found to be intelligent and dependable. Oliver and Pandora were the only quiet members of the family, but it was clear when Pandora was thinking deeply or not, whereas Oliver was always quiet and seemed he was, always, contemplating the mysteries of the universe.

I think of all the dead people in the portraits, Oliver is my favourite. He always regarded me with solemn eyes and spoke with a great care. I often wonder how James would have turned out had Oliver lived. He was a year younger than the twins, and subsequently only a year behind them in Ravenclaw. I think, perhaps, he would have preferred being seven years behind those two.

I saw him four weeks after meeting the twins. He was such a quiet person that I overlooked him several times before realizing he moved as all the other portraits did. The other times before, he was always seated at his desk, elbow propped upward with his chin resting on a fist, staring off into the distance. It was that day when Pandora announced she had to see wizard lawyers about adoption and other legalities, especially my name.

All the other times before, James tried to be nice. Indeed, he went so far as to introduce me to the neighbourhood children, such as Frank Longbottom, Alice Hollin (Neville's future mother), Remus, and Sirius. At first, I did get along with Remus. Remus and I understood each other up to the point where Remus followed Sirius in his pranks.

Sirius decided I would make a great victim for pranks and, as the butt of his jokes and victim of his shenanigans for years, I fully and utterly resent everything he did to me. I, being frank and forthright, told him I could not stand this behaviour and wished he left me alone. He thought it most delightful and continued his mischief.

Why on earth did Remus, then a quiet and studious lad, follow Sirius like a sheep off a cliff? This question plagued me for many years, but I think now it may have been because Remus admired Sirius and James for their lack of concern towards any one person's opinions. I admit both Sirius and James had a strength that would not allow themselves to be swayed by peer pressure (a shame, sometimes). Remus, from his early years, drew upon their strength to create his own self-support.

I decided on my second day at Dinsmore that, if I were to be James' brother, I would be his older brother. James was brash and careless, as I said before, and brutally honest without a care towards anyone's opinions except those who were selfish cowards. For some odd reason, he took such persons under his wing and nurtured their pride and self-esteem (Peter Pettigrew… Another one of the Sorting Hat's jokes, I'm sure). I shall never ever understand that of him. As his older brother, I tried to keep him out of trouble, to guide him along the paths that, well, were not _as_ troublesome. He did not quite care for my best efforts and so I never quite knew success.

On the day Pandora was to haggle with the legal system, James and Sirius, as a joke, snitched a platter of strawberry tarts that Augusta Longbottom (Frank's mother and Neville's grandmother, a dominating woman who even intimidated Pandora and _that alone_ says a _great deal)_ had baked. I tried to make them listen to me and return the tarts. They would not, and both Frank and I received a mighty tongue lashing from Mrs. Longbottom as she suspected us for taking them.

Upset with James and his taste in friends, I went directly to Dinsmore, hoping Pandora had not yet left. I found her presence comforting even if I would not tell her what took place. She saw well enough, with those penetrating blue eyes of hers, what had happened between James and myself. She did nothing, however, as she did not know how to handle two young boys who lacked a male authority figure. She could handle mischievous daughters by putting them to work with feminine tasks designed to diminish tomboyish habits. In handling boys, however, Pandora floundered helplessly and was unable to find advice from her family.

Francis certainly did not know how to handle us as he had been an only child and his own son could hardly be considered rambunctious. As a portrait, Oliver had issues reconciling with being a father _and_ dead at the same time, something both Anastasia and Edwina found highly amusing.

So James and I were allowed to run amuck with little discipline, for Pandora believed we might learn well enough from mistakes rather than lectures that would merely enter one ear and leave out the other in a single instant. She never struck us, stuck us in a corner, or made us write essays. I think, once, James went to bed without supper, but as discipline went it failed spectacularly because Pandora snuck him some shepherd's pie when she thought I wasn't looking.

Unable to find Pandora and realizing she left and not yet returned, I wandered the cottage and stared once more at the moving portraits. The Snapes were noble and haughty, and usually did not care to speak to me upon learning of my less-than-exalted beginnings. The one exception to this was Pandora's father, Severus Snape, but I will speak of him in but a moment. I still must tell you of Oliver.

I had never noticed Oliver before because he simply did not catch my attention. If he had been a gutter rat, his ability to go without notice would have made him a legend. This was a man who could melt into the background and was so capable of going unnoticed that those history books, which should have acknowledged the Potter family, would have overlooked him.

The only reason why I did notice Oliver at all was by seeing Francis in a portrait, conversing with a person. Their words were quiet as their heads bowed together. I stared in surprise, not realizing whom the portrait's occupant was until I looked at the name beneath the frame. When it read "Oliver Potter," I knew it had to be Pandora's and Francis' one son and James' father.

I admit I was angry at the time. I felt resentful towards James for his selfish carelessness. When Francis departed from the picture without noticing me, I cleared my throat. Oliver looked at me and I was suddenly struck with the sorrow in his eyes. I felt my anger wither and die as Oliver thoughtfully cocked his head to one side and studied me closely.

"You are the boy Mum took in." It was a neutral statement, a testing of the waters, of myself. His voice was soft and surprisingly melodious. He wore his black hair long and tied at the nape of his neck.

"You're James' father," I replied. A look of nervousness overcame Oliver and he blushed slightly. Thoughtful and quiet he might have been, Oliver was the shy one of the family and easily embarrassed. I frowned at seeing the blush. "He's horrid," I said upon whim with every bit of resentment I could muster.

"Well," Oliver nervously fiddled with his sleeve, "he is a boy. Little boys do tend to be somewhat horrid." He sighed. "I tried to be, but it never seemed to suit me. Being horrid, that is."

"He got me into trouble," I added sullenly.

Oliver frowned. "Did he now? How?"

I explained the situation to him. Oliver nodded now and then as I spoke, but volunteered nothing. When I finished and lapsed into silence, Oliver crossed his arms before him and looked thoughtful once more, the blush still staining his face. I stared at him, wondering if he would say something, but he did not. As I turned away to walk, he called out to me.

"Severus." I stopped and looked at Oliver. The sorrow appeared in his eyes again. "I am sorry for James being horrid but there is naught either you or I may do, as he is what he is. You cannot push him where he does not want to go. He may be carefully coaxed with gentleness, but you are not gentle, and thus you will not succeed. You can only live with what he is. But," he added hastily as I scowled at him, "for what it's worth, I shall speak to him and Mum. And, well, if you ever need to speak to me about anything, I am here to listen."

That is something even Pandora did not offer me: an ear to listen. I did not want advice or lectures, but someone willing to hear me fret without casting judgement or making decisions for me. I took advantage of that offer. I came often to speak to Oliver; many times over did I seek him out to speak about my troubles with James, Sirius, and anything else. Were it not for your grandfather, I would have grown into a bitter and morose person.

All right, so I _did_ become bitter and morose, but I could have been much worse!

I know Oliver grieved for the actions of his son, but the portrait had been painted when he was seventeen, and thus his nature at seventeen had been captured. James, for his own reasons, refused to see Oliver and I believe this pained Oliver.

Pandora had two vices that were easily manipulated. The first was curiosity, for such was her Slytherin cunning and Snape pride that she would not allow herself to question unknown variables; she _had_ to understand. The second was children, as Pandora had a very large soft spot for children, believing they were the future. Standing above all others in this softness, ranking in importance greater than any living person including myself, was James. He was Pandora's _ultimate_ weakness.

Voldemort, knowing full well the danger Pandora alone represented even after Francis' end, sought to control her through this weakness. Pandora would not, could not lend her support in any manner to Voldemort and his cause. For whatever reason, Voldemort never tried to kill Pandora for such insolence. But the others would never know this mercy, if one could call it such.

When Oliver was twenty-one, he married Anne Sullivan. They had two children (James and Jonathon, seventeen months apart) by the time he was twenty-four. Voldemort struck when James was three years old, using the Potter children and grandchildren to not just extort some control over Pandora, but also to show the world what would happen to those who opposed him.

I will not go into full detail of the bloodbath Voldemort wrought – it is too horrific to describe, and it feels… disrespectful to write, as if I'm capitalizing upon the sensations of another's great misfortune. In short, the twins were torn asunder limb from limb as if wild monsters had attacked them; Oliver and Anne were sliced into ribbons with sharp objects; and of Jonathon only his head, torn free from its little body, was found.

James had disappeared without a trace.

Pandora had been the first to discover the aftermath and though she tried to keep the information under wraps the wizarding world knew within hours what had happened. But still there was no trace of James.

After the passing of two days, Pandora slipped away from the authorities and the investigators for some private time. She settled herself in a Muggles play park, watching children on the play equipment, solaced perhaps of knowing that there was still innocence that persisted in the world despite the world's best efforts to taint and destroy it. In full daylight, Voldemort came to her. He approached her silently with James, still splattered from the bloodbath, held tenderly in his arms, and told her in an equally tender voice that this was merely the beginning, but it could be _her_ end.

He said, and I quote from Pandora: "This is your one remaining descendant. Should you ever wage a direct assault or lead an attack against me, I shall play with him as I play with nothing else, and he shall be as immortal as myself, never to die and escape that which I can inflict upon him. The Potter name shall cease to exist, and the Snape blood will never flow in another's veins." With that, he returned James and left.

Pandora was frightened that Voldemort had done something to James to strip him of his wits and senses, for he was a blank, unresponsive puppet. Months passed before he would feed or toilet himself, and more months followed before James could even respond to Pandora's voiced directions. Years later, it was Sirius, newly arrived with his family at the base of Dinsmore in a woodcutter's cottage, who drew James out of his silent shell. But even after he recovered his voice, James never spoke of that time with Voldemort. But I could see, in his eyes, that something horrible had happened. I could see that everything I had ever survived through in the slums could not compare to what he suffered, even if the closest to physical torture James ever came was the witness of his family's sadistic massacre. I believe that is why James could never visit his father's portrait; it reminded him too much of those events, and James was….exceedingly fragile, in that respect.

Pray, Harry, to whatever god you believe in that Voldemort does not _play_ with you. I know the depths of the dark lord's depravity and cannot imagine what James experienced in those two days he and Voldemort were together.

Not even your godfather or Peter Pettigrew deserve such fates.

With that one exception almost twenty years after Voldemort warned her, Pandora never did attack Voldemort, nor would she participate in plans to defeat him. Others knew she could not, nor did they blame her for her refusal, for they knew as well that the punishment would fall upon James' head, and such a punishment would make the previous massacre and blank puppetry seem like gracious mercy.

All Pandora had left in the world was James. Francis was gone, her children and grandson not even buried yet in the family cemetery because of the investigation. Her mother had left before Pandora entered Hogwarts. "Off to warmer waters, she is," Pandora had said with a faraway look in her eyes. Her father, Severus Snape, had died just before she graduated Hogwarts.

Now, I liked Severus Snape. Of all the Snapes, he was the only one who spoke to me upon learning I was Pandora's adopted gutter rat (disregarding Cousin Quigley Snape, the family drunkard and a pathetic lout who will get no more mention than this, because he bore more family shame then I ever could, and that was even just as a portrait!). Grandfather Severus was one of the most open-minded persons I have ever known, even if his portrait was painted shortly before he met his wife. It was for this reason he freely gave Pandora his blessings to marry the Muggle-born Francis Potter, something many of the other Snapes disapproved, for they were an old family, well established as being one of the top five prominent pure-blood wizard families of Great Britain. Severus was a charming man, dashingly handsome with the Snape family's appearance but for the very dark blue eyes he had inherited from his mother. Pandora and James both affectionately referred to him as Da.

Like Oliver, I overlooked Severus' portrait. This was not because Severus was as quiet as Oliver, but because I had already learned the Snapes would ignore me. On a bright sunny day a mere week after meeting Oliver, the sort of day meant for mischief (which was the reason why I was wandering Dinsmore; Sirius was looking for his new-found favourite victim — me), I passed beneath Severus' portrait, looking at the empty portraits as the other Snapes went about their usual thing of gathering to the portraits closest to the windows to enjoy the sunshine.

"Psst. Boy!"

I looked over my shoulder to the direction of the unfamiliar voice and saw Severus. Pandora looked like him but for her eyes and square jaw. I squinted at him, looked about, and then pointed at myself. He nodded. "Yes, you. Come here." He pointed at the floor directly before him. I walked over to the spot, puzzled as to why a Snape was speaking with me. He bent over so his eyes were nearly equal to mine and said, "I have not as of yet seen my new namesake. Tilt your head. More. No, more, more."

I glared at him. "Why? If I crane my neck anymore, my head shall fall off."

Severus shook his head. "Nonsense, the only way your head will fall off is if Pandora knocks you across the back of your neck! And," he winked at me, "regardless of whatever you do, she will never smack you."

"She stares at you," I said.

Severus looked at me in confusion, shook himself slightly, and then brightened. "Is this the stare that says she thinks you are an idiot?" I nodded, and he shivered. "It's amazing what that girl could make you feel even at the age of five years."

I tried to imagine Pandora as a five year old. Except for her own portrait painted shortly after she received her master's in Defence Against Dark Arts, she was no more different then than now but for her hair fading from black to grey; I could not imagine her at my age. "What was she like when she was my age?"

"A terror," Severus pouted. "Oh, she was a wretched brat, spoiled to the core and apple of her parents' eyes. All she had to do was give us that look and, to escape the guilt she conflicted upon us, we had to shower her with gifts to her heart's content."

"That…is very much what Pandora does with James."

He nodded in agreement. "_That_ boy is a terror too, one who _needs_ a good pop on the bottom for discipline."

I knew then that I would love this man as much as I might someday love Pandora, when I could finally trust myself to feel such a thing. And because of this love for him did I choose my surname.


	6. The Foundation Of Strength

_In which Severus Snape meets the friends of James Potter. He continues to be less than impressed._

* * *

Two days after my meeting the original Severus Snape for the first time, a man from adoption services arrived at Dinsmore to finish paperwork with Pandora. Both James and I entered the kitchen where papers were strewn about the table where both adults sat, asking and answering questions.

James boldly marched over and wiggled onto Pandora's lap. He openly stared at the legal papers. I stood at Pandora's side and looked up at the man. I never learned what the man's name was, but I do not care. James and I silently listened to the conversation.

"The boy's name here, here, and here," the man said, pointing at separate lines on two different papers. As Pandora's quill touched the paper, James leaned forward and peered at the writing.

"What's all of Sev's name?" he asked curiously.

"Severus Dominic Potter," Pandora replied absently as she began to write.

I felt chilled when I realized I did not want James' name. I did not want to be a part of _him_, beholden to James for something that I had always wanted. I wanted Pandora's name, but not her name, necessarily. I remembered the man I was named for first, with his cheerful devil-be-damned-with-the-rest-of-the-world attitude and his belief in exceptions to every rule. I wanted to have the same name as my grandfather, not the same name as the person Pandora said was my brother. "No," I said. This startled the others. I felt slightly uncomfortable at having gained their attention as my gutter rat's instincts rose to the surface. I felt a lump grow in my throat, but I could not stop; I would not stop. Something within me demanded to have that name. "I don't want to be a Potter," I said.

The man rolled his eyes in irritation and leaned forward. "Your legal papers have already been signed," he said testily and slowly, as if he thought I was a simple-minded child like Sirius, "it's too—" Pandora silenced him with a single wave of her hand and a quick glance. James solemnly watched and witnessed.

"Why do you wish not to be a Potter?" Pandora asked softly as she stroked James' hair. "I'm one."

"You married a Potter. _I_ want to be a Snape." I held my breath as her eyebrows dropped sharply downward and she crinkled her brow in thought. I also wanted to choose something in my name. I wanted to have some margin of control over my life. Yet there was still the unknown need to have the name; a need I could not understand. I felt giddy with excitement, and dread that I had gone too far.

Pandora finally reached out and tapped the papers with her stubby fingers. "How long can this wait?"

"I-I don't know… Why?"

"I need to see my lawyer about Severus' birth certificates."

"But you can't!" Pandora leaned back in her chair as the man burst out. His face flooded red in anger and he glared at me instead of looking directly at Pandora. "The papers were made for him to bear your name as he had none, and the name should match your own to fit the adoption papers!"

Pandora pointed her wand, always kept tucked in her apron's front pocket, at the pile of papers and muttered something I could not distinguish. The papers snapped together into a neat pile. The man looked at her with wide eyes and she pointed her wand at the kitchen door. It swung open. "If Severus wants my father's full family name, he shall have my father's full family name. I shall see you again soon. Have a _nice_ day."

The man huffed and left in a dark mood.

Though difficult, Pandora did as I wished in assuring that I would be a Snape. When asked why she wished to change her mind, she explained to the people she already had a child for the Potter heritage. It had occurred to her, she said, that if she were to adopt, why not do so with the Snape surname? After all, she _was_ the last and it was a fine name to bestow upon a gutter rat.

Almost too fine, as it seemed to many people.

Some families believed I should have remained Severus Potter, grandson of the Muggleborn who happened to be in the right place and the right time with the right contraption to seize Pandora's interest and heart. After all, what would it look to those families who could trace their ancestors through the Snape line because of marriage and distant relationships if a gutter rat — a deplorable, vermin-laden, disease-carrying, filthy bastard get of a whore — was to continue this illustrious bloodline _without a single drop of Snape blood in his veins?_ After all, it was bad enough the last of the Snapes married a mudblood rather than someone from one of the other prominent wizard families.

About here I would like to mention how you are cousins — seven or eight times removed, I could never keep track — to Draco Malfoy. Now, mind you, the real Severus Snape did not mind _my_ presumptuous askance for his name. Indeed, he was very proud about the whole affair and would readily brag to anyone who cared to listen, which was a sore few persons. He usually satisfied himself with telling Francis how proud he was of me as Francis, absent-minded and certainly not listening, tinkered away.

There is no love lost between either myself, as a Snape, or Lucius and Draco, as Malfoys. Indeed, were it not for Lucius, I would not have been forced into making the decision of being a Death Eater. Needless to say, I am bitter towards the man. He should be suspended by his toes from the branches of the Whomping Willow alongside Lockhart. I can stand Draco to a certain degree; he is an instrument of mine for revenge against Lucius.

To Pandora, I was as much a Snape as she, and it did not matter if sewage flowed through my veins rather than the bluest of all bloods. She would not permit others to think less of me for it, and certainly refused to let any notion of inferiority get me down, if such a thing ever happened. Which it did not. Henceforth she did not say "my" to mean her Snape family and all that they did, she would say, "our".

_ "Our family is longstanding in pride, Severus, we should remember it is not because of our power nor our bloodlines that make it so, but because we so chose to determine that our family is the foundation of our strength." _

I adore those words; not because she included me as if I had been born into the Snape family with the automatic rights to being everything they were and all they had, but because I have rarely heard anything more wisely said.

Harry, you come from a proud family possessing a great honour, wealth, and strength. Perhaps you may find that depressing, for not only do you now have to live up to your "Boy Who Lived" image for your absurd mass of drooling, mindless fans, but also because you have learned of the greatness of your family to which you must now aspire.

Do not think thus. Do not _ever_ think thus. It is exactly as Pandora stated: "We so _chose_ to _determine_ that our family is the _foundation_ of our strength." Oliver Potter once told me never to live up to being like someone else, for I have the rights only to surpass myself. You cannot, nor should not, try to be as noble as any of your family. Use their past exploits, their won honours, and their own heroic deeds, as the foundation for your own.

Perhaps this is difficult for me to explain. We are what we wish to be influenced as. We may manipulate the input of experience we receive to create the output of what we chose to learn and take from the experience. We are what we make ourselves. I was a gutter rat, the very dredge of mankind. Yet I would aspire to be greater than that; I used my background to mould myself into what I am today. Because I knew what it was like to have nothing — no hope, no possessions, no honour, and no love or friendship — I used those memories to work hard to _gain_ and to _earn_ what I now have.

This is the foundation that gave me ambition. Like this, one can use the memories and tales of one's family members to create a ladder in which to climb to success. In times past, when I was both a Death Eater and when I survived Azkaban, I lent upon the strength of the Snape family and past experiences. It was not the usual questions others may ask, such as, "What would they have done?" or "What would they think of me if I give up?" I did _not_ do what I did_ to become _them, for I would make myself what I am. I did what I did _for_ them, to honour their memory and their own sense of dignity as people who loved me.

You may be like Pandora, cunning and sly. You may be like Francis, brilliant and naïve. Or you may be like your father, strong and honourable.

Or you can be yourself, such that Pandora or Francis or James may look at you and say, "Yes, that is uniquely Harry Potter."

The Snapes and Potters made their way in the world, full of energy and ambition, to wrestle with fate only to bounce right back on to their feet and be ready for the next obstacle hurled into their pathway. You can and you do follow in their footsteps; not the footsteps of greatness, for true greatness may only be attained through your own deeds and not by leaching off of someone else's exploits. Your family nurtured a dignified self-integrity; through that definition, your actions are reflected as such, so your family then becomes the foundation of your strength.

"It is a Potter thing to fight," so many a person said of James' decision to become an Auror. Indeed it was; but the habit in which he fought was that of the Snape family, and James borrowed that to build his foundation of strength. You yourself often lend from your father's and mother's memories for strength and dedication. By doing this, you do not make yourself live up to them, but use them for the examples they set.

Now, James, in and of himself, was not _too_ bad of a person, I suppose. In retrospect, I have known far worse.

I did eventually come to love him in my own way. He was my brother and I never would have purposefully endangered him. However, we were not close. I could not tell you what were his favourite colour, his happiest memory, or most-liked dessert. I never thought it necessary to ask; he never felt is necessary to tell. Nor, I think, did either of us really _care_.

Let it not be said though that we could not or did not depend on one another. Through blood and by the common bond we shared by loving Pandora as our mother, it was enough to warrant dedication to one another. If James was removed from the presence and influence of Sirius, he and I got along splendidly. Sometimes. Maybe.

Actually, we usually were usually at each other's throats when Pandora's neutral and calming presence was sorely missed.

Unfortunately, James and Sirius might as well have been Siamese twins, so attached they were to one another. Between the two of them, they managed to spend more than 95 of all waking hours together at either Dinsmore, Sirius' family's home, Remus' family home, or wherever else they cared to cause trouble.

As I rarely could put up with the nonsense Sirius constantly displayed, it was not often we were together at all. However, Pandora believed in outings to the Muggle world, saying it was vital for us to know about the Muggles, for they were too dangerous _not_ to be understood. She often took us to parks, museums, fairs, restaurants, and theatres in an attempt to "Muggle-culture" us. And by us, I mean both myself, James, and any neighbourhood child who were still clinging to the back of Pandora's buggy as we rode off to the railroad station.

With the Snape wealth, Pandora could well afford to take more than a dozen children to a zoo. All would listen to what she had to say and Muggles often commended her on her very well behaved grandchildren. Indeed, it was not unusual for Pandora to gather all seventeen of the scattered neighbourhood children to London if they were present at Dinsmore on holiday, bored and knowing that Pandora could be talked into for something nice.

Dinsmore itself was a rather large cottage, a manor perhaps, that sat upon a hill. Growing around the hill was a forest, and in separate areas of this forest, dotted here and there in patches of sparse growth where the trees had been cut back, were homes of other wizards and witches. Because of the terror Voldemort slowly created through Europe, it was decided in the wizarding world that it was safer for people to live in groups. And nowhere was it safer to live than in the shadow of someone with a Pandora-like influence over Voldemort, if any.

During the rise of Voldemort's power, many wizarding families moved to this area. Indeed, the next time you go to the Barrow and see the Weasley family, walk eight kilometres northeast, and you shall find the blackened remains of that homey cottage in which your father and I grew up.

The families that moved to the area more often than not had children and, as a result, neither James nor I ever had want for a playmate. If one walked out the backdoor of Dinsmore and hopped over the fence, there lived Frank Longbottom and his mother, a woman divorced and remarried more times than I care to remember. Out the front door led to the Lupins' residence and three more homes, and if one snuck out James' bedroom window and directly over the fence there, one would find one's self just a few hundred meters from where Sirius lived with his family.

There were few neighbourhood children I got along with; Frank Longbottom was one of them, and Remus, when he was not with Sirius. All things considering, Remus and James together was not an awful pairing. Remus' calm and cool nature often overrode James' desire for mischief and the two of them would instead explore the surrounding countryside, such as the woods or the tunnels dug beneath Dinsmore by past generations of eccentric Snapes. I enjoyed being invited along such explorations, rare as they were.

* * *

As Pandora was a highly regarded member of the wizarding world and as she was well versed with Muggles, she volunteered with the Ministry of Magic to introduce the idea to Muggle parents that their precious child was a wizard or a witch.

That is something few people ever give thought. Yes, when a child comes to Hogwarts and says, "I am Muggle-born but I'm attending this school to be a wizard/witch," it is generally accepted. You yourself may have been surprised to learn you were to attend a school for wizards, and it was not well-met with your family, despite the Dursleys being familiar with the idea of magic and wizards through Petunia and Lily.

However, it is rarely a wise idea to drop a letter off at a house, delivered unseen by an owl, which states, in essence, "Congratulations, your brat is a wizard/witch, please send him/her to the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for proper training." That would be taken as a prank or a joke, and the parents would throw the letter away without a backwards glance, regardless of their child's excitement.

Such matters must be addressed with extreme delicacy by someone the Ministry could trust not to bungle. It is difficult for anyone to believe Pandora would play such a nonsensical prank, as her dignity and composure discouraged suspicion. She was, I believe, one of eight people who volunteered this throughout the UK. Unlike the other seven, Pandora used the best resource: other children.

In other words, your father and I were often enlisted to help with Pandora's schemes. But it wasn't all for naught; this is how your father and your mother met, after all.

Now, Pandora was not the sort of person to blindly leap into a situation. That, I believe, is purely a Potter characteristic, for Snapes are rarely impetuous. It must come from being from a family with a very strong outturn of Ravenclaws and Slytherins. Pandora preferred to study the persons she would approach with information that would forever change the way they not only saw the world, but also future plans for their children. She often explained to James and me that it was easier to present the information in a manner that the parents could comfortably accept, or at least did not feel threatened.

Her strategy to dissuade the Muggles was always the same: Divide and conquer. A _very_ good strategy.

Separate the child from his or her parents and get that child involved with James and myself in play. We would present the idea of magic to the child, and Pandora would measure the child's reaction. As children often reflect their parents' sentiments and beliefs, Pandora gained insight to the possible reaction of the parents. Pandora led each conversation with extreme caution, probing and guiding, coaxing and cajoling, until the hapless Muggle was trapped within a web of words and wonder.

I remember the day we met Lily. It had rained in London for more than a week, and when the rain finally ceased, parents dragged children filled with pent-up energy to playgrounds and parks for a moment's respite. Despite the sun not being out and the wind rather chilly, Mrs. Evans brought Lily and her older sister, your lovely aunt Petunia (please note my sarcasm), to the park.

Pandora had been observing the family for several weeks, all of us living within a near-by rented flat. She took this as a chance to be good as any other, bundled James and me up in several sweaters with a cap on each head to protect us should it begin to rain once more, and hustled us off to the park after the Evans family.

James was excited; at the age of ten years, he and Sirius had a lot of experience as being all-around tricksters and trouble-causers. Being stuck in a single room with only myself for company and the many books of spells and charms Pandora had given us to study was not a healthy thing for an over-active boy with a sense of mischief that rivalled Voldemort's ambition to rule the world.

The first thing James did upon reaching the playground was to pour an oily compound on the slide, something I had brewed up from one of Pandora's potion recipes as bribe to keep him from bothering me the day before. Children misfortunate enough to play on it found the bottom of their trousers or skirts slicked up to the point where they slid off further than they ever dreamed of. Nor could they sit upon anything afterwards, as they would slide from their perch. Needless to say, the swings were free. Pandora's only response to that little prank was to seat herself beside Mrs. Evans, roll her eyes, and then complain loudly about problematic little boys.

Having only daughters, Mrs. Evans expressed her condolences. From there, they began a casual conversation about the pros and cons of raising only girls, versus raising only boys. As for myself, I wandered over to the sandpit where Lily was creating a set of tunnels. I quietly began to work beside her as James continued to reap havoc upon the Muggle children. After some time, his energy diminished, and he joined me in the sandbox. I cannot remember what happened to Petunia that day – I suspect she hid once she realized that James didn't just limit his mischief to other little boys.

"Eh, that was all sorts of fun, wasn't it Sev?" he asked as he plopped down beside me and ran his hands through the damp sand. I glared at him disapprovingly. James was not bothered in the least. "Don't look like that, Sev," he said knowingly, "or your face'll stick."

Lily giggled then. It was the first sound she had made since we both started playing in the sandbox. She had not even sighed when Petunia tromped through earlier and wrecked our sandy creations. At the time, she was a mousy little thing with tangled auburn hair and the most brilliant green eyes I have ever seen on anyone.

"Look like what?" I asked.

"Like this." James frowned in the same manner as I had. I rolled my eyes and Lily giggled again. James turned to her with a grin. "I guess I shouldn't do that," he said, "my face might stick like his and then there would be two of us!"

I rolled my eyes again. "The world would end as we know it."

James threw a friendly arm around my shoulders. "We love each other," he said to Lily, "can you tell?"

She continued to giggle. James, as brash as he was at times, could be quite charming if he willed. I think Lily was quite taken in by him from that moment onward, as James took her under his proverbial wing. They did become quite fond of one another throughout the years. Lily was like Remus, calm and even-headed. She tempered James' wildness while he brought her to life with his antics, adding a spark to her eyes and a spring to her steps.

In the ploy of introducing the idea of magic, James and I manipulated one another, come what may. We mooched off of each other for cues, ideas, and ploys. We would lay blame and cast excuses, using each other to what had to be done, willingly pooling together our resources to succeed.

This was a foreshadow of what we would do together in our years after graduating Hogwarts. He would become an Auror, and I a Death Eater. Ah, but we were a formable force! My cunning and his strength combined with our mutual drives and ambitions, and we knew success as the others never did.

As James spoke with Lily, he played up on my grumpiness. This was where we would introduce the concept of magic. The more James spoke, the more he gestured with his hands. When he suddenly stopped gesturing, that was Pandora's cue to watch closely as we mentioned the M word. Now, from this time on, our roles would interchange. If the child we spoke to was taken in with James, he would turn to the child and say quite solemnly, "And can you believe this boring git here doesn't believe in magic?"

From there we led the child in a roundabout way, trying to see if the child accepted the idea. If he or she did or did not, that was Pandora's signal to manipulating the parents into the avenue she wished them in. James' and my roles exchanged if the child was repulsed in some way by James' behaviour. I would introduce the concept of magic by saying, "Would you believe this fool here thinks magic exists?"

Now, it was generally a given if the child would accept the concept just by the overall reaction towards James' and my question. Lily's response to James' comment was to look at me with wide, disbelieving eyes. I shrugged, and then Pandora would take it from there.

I will not explain how Pandora presented Hogwarts to the parents as well as the child's invitation to attend. Needless to say, Mr. and Mrs. Evans were not hard to convince that the school was not a hoax. Indeed, they were excited over the idea of their daughter being a witch. They thought it to be very special and were proud of Lily's ability to do magic. However, Petunia was not.

Add that woman to the list of people who should be suspended by their toes from the Whomping Willow. Place her between Lucius and Lockhart, and let the three of them at each other; it would be most amusing and they deserve no less.


	7. In Preparation Of School

_In which Severus Snape meets Lucious Malfoy, and sincerely regrets it._

* * *

In the full year before both James and I were eleven (my birthday decidedly being the day Pandora found me), Pandora saw four Muggle families and convinced the parents that sending their child to Hogwarts was the right and proper thing to do. The hardest part was introducing these parents to Diagon Alley.

It was not hard for the children to fall in love with the area. They became as fascinated by it as I had been while still with my little clan of gutter rats. The parents, on the other hand, did not have their children's magic, so nothing called to them. They did not feel as if everything was so magnificent and the world stopped for them in a singular moment. To them, Diagon Alley was strange and eccentric, far too peculiar for their comfort.

Pandora took each family separately on-tour, explaining what the child would need, where it was to be had, why it was so important, and where the bank was. The Evans were treated the same as everyone, though they believed both daughters should learn about magic even if Petunia would never be a witch. As James and I were Pandora's partners in her schemes, she brought us along for the tours, though James was permitted to bring Sirius that one time since Sirius needed school supplies. When Pandora gave James permission to explore, he, Lily, and Sirius disappeared rather quickly.

Pandora and the other adults busied themselves with things that had to be done.

This left me with… Petunia.

I almost feel pity that you should be raised by this haughty, obnoxious, vindictive little hag. Had she the ability to think for herself rather than allowing others to do it for her and had she been able to use magic like her younger sister, she would have made a damn fine Slytherin. However, Petunia Evans was not, in the least, sly or cunning. She was stupid as a drunken horse with a fetish for glue. She had this odd little way of craning her neck at others, staring at those people who caused her irritancy.

And you, you of all people, _do the exact same thing!_ You cannot imagine how irritating I find this or how annoying this can be! I cannot pleasantly teach a class when you are using that woman's bad habits - **how could you?!**

Could you not have found someone else's bad habits to mimic than Petunia's? You frown in the same manner, tilt your head in the same manner, and accuse people in the same manner! This is one of the reasons I find you so absolutely annoying. It does not matter if you are James' and Lily's son and my nephew - you are too much like that Petunia! You were better off being raised by Hagrid, coarse as I find that man at times.

I would have preferred to be with Sirius, that being how much I _hated_ being with Petunia. She demanded perfectly reasonable explanations for every single thing that took place, from how Diagon Alley managed to fit in this one small area, how the wall had opened up, what were those floating books about, and those brooms! She ranted so much about how brooms logically could not fly until I felt like smacking her upside the head with said brooms. Multiple times. Never mind the fact Pandora had already explained this was a wizard's market and the objects bought and sold were objects of magic. Magic does not tend to be logic. That which is mystical cannot be logical.

Petunia would have been better off with Francis Potter; he could have talked circles around her about magic and what logic did fit into it. Unfortunately, I was too irritated to talk over her head. To think of the opportunity I missed…

For well over an hour Petunia and I stayed with Pandora and the Evans parents, until Pandora was quite insistent about my taking Petunia and showing her around as James and Sirius were doing with Lily.

Petunia began to weave insults into her complaints when the adults were out of hearing, mostly about my heritage and myself. Now, being a gutter rat, this was a rather sore subject for me. I had already decided I was a whore's get, but to hear it from this girl so callously was wretched. I abandoned Petunia to the wilds of magic, then. It was no mean feat to lose her amongst the market's crowd, not with my street skills. I then suddenly found myself with nothing to occupy my time. I wandered the area, looking at all the nice things. I soon found a place that sold all sorts of potions ingredients.

As I roamed the aisles, looking at what was on sale, the very old shopkeeper tottered up to me. He looked at me down his straight nose, his wire-framed glasses perching on the very tip, and frowned. "Where are your parents?" he demanded. I ignored him. Pandora said often that when _I_ was a customer, I had the right to be in the store so long as I treated those waiting upon me with respect. He trailed after along, suspiciously eyeing everything that I touched. "You're here to steal something, aren't you? Oh, I know your kind all right! Always coming about to cause trouble and take what isn't yours!"

This man ranted and complained much in the same manner as Petunia had. I could only take so much, so with a glare of disgust I tried to leave the shop. Please note the operative word here: _tried_. The man instead snatched me back and began to accuse me of stealing things from him, of how I probably had more than a dozen galleons' worth of merchandise in my pockets. He thrust his hands into my pockets and jerked at my clothes, which brought to my recall memories that I would much rather… have left unrecalled. When I tried to struggle free, he called me the miserable get of a whore, so I bit him, and then I fled when he released me.

There was something about me in those days that seemed to tell others I was not a normal child. Perhaps because I tended to be so sullen and quiet, watching the world and comparing it to the slums. You see, Harry, all experiences leave a mark somewhere on one's eyes or face. Even you; there is a shadow that masks the brilliant colour of your eyes, a shadow created from what Voldemort has done. My experiences from the slums were not good, and so people saw something stained and wretched.

These things should not have bothered me after living so well the last four years with Pandora and James, but they did. To hear these words reinforced the lingering doubts that had continued to thrive despite Pandora's best intentions.

I resented Petunia bitterly. She complained and tried to make herself appear a martyr, suffering the anguish of a strange world on top of the "favour" her parents pressed more upon Lily. What would _she_ know about hard times? What would the shopkeeper understand about the desperation that might, in another time and another life, have forced me to steal from him?

As I was not looking where I was running, I ran into an older boy with pale hair and a haughty expression. This was Lucius Malfoy. He fell to the ground and glared up at me where he was sprawled on the street. He squinted at me, saw how different I was from others, and made his own decision of who I was much like your father had.

"Watch where you are going, you stupid bastard."

That was the _third_ time in a single hour that I was insulted in such a manner. My immediate response was a vicious kick to the ribs. It was the only time I have ever physically struck out at my cousin-by-adoption, but I still feel the urge to gloat. Perhaps it is marginally my fault for his later behaviour all. Had I controlled my temper I would not have kicked him and that, perhaps, would have saved me a great deal of grief in the years to come.

Or perhaps it would not have. If I had been destined to be what I became then nothing I could have done in the past would have prevented the events. Who are we to say what actually is, when all is said and done?

But I still enjoyed kicking Lucius Malfoy when the man was down.

When he lunged to his feet and swung a fist at me, I ran once more and easily lost him. After another hour, I chanced upon hearing Petunia screeching about being lost and how the whole world hated her. I followed the screeching and found Petunia telling Lily off as James and Sirius, rolling their eyes and impatiently shifting their feet, waited for her to finish. Lily looked uncomfortable as the centre of attention. Those passing craned their necks to see what the commotion was all about. Feeling sorry for Lily, I strode over to Petunia and said, "There you are! I've been looking all over for you. Next time, don't run off like that. It's hard for me to find you."

Petunia fumed at the accusations being turned around. Lily, seeing her elder sister distracted, ran off with a grinning James and Sirius closely behind. Stuck once more with Petunia, who had decided I was the next best thing to yell at besides her sister, I sought Pandora.

I found her with the Evans at a broom shop, as she explained to them how Lily would not need a broom for her first year and why. Once there, Petunia clamped her thin lips together and fumed in silence as I pressed myself against Pandora's side, hugging her close like James sometimes did.

Pandora dropped a hand on my head, and said nothing of the matter.

* * *

Time passed. You can be sure the only dependable thing that exists is the march of time. For time is just that - marching continuously along over those things that get in its way, forever and always, without a single thought of those caught within its path. It drags us along until we cannot keep up with it anymore and thus we die from exhaustion.

One would think that, with the many times she took the families to tour Diagon Alley with James and myself on tow, Pandora would have found the time to pick up our supplies. Alas! Pandora seemed to have overlooked the fact that her two boys were of the proper age for entrance to Hogwarts, and it was not until Minerva McGonagall showed up to speak to her did Pandora suddenly realize we were both of proper age.

McGonagall and Francis had been in the same House, although Francis was ahead by two years, and had been close friends during school. The weight of Voldemort's attacks had not affected McGonagall as much as they had affected Pandora, and so she did not look as aged as Pandora. When I first met McGonagall, noble and as stubborn as only a Gryffindor could be, James took an instant liking to her, as well as Remus. Sirius, born troublemaker with instincts to rival my street-honed ones, could tell she was a woman who did not put up with nonsense. He avoided her a great deal, which I took to be a good sign – Minerva and I got along quite well; always have, in fact.

Neither James nor I discovered of what it was McGonagall wished to speak to Pandora. Remus explained, years later, how McGonagall had come to speak to Pandora about the amount of space needed for a young werewolf. Pandora knew, Remus said, because she sealed off a certain area of the tunnels beneath Dinsmore for his use during the full moon.

When McGonagall arrived, she gave Pandora our lesson plans. They came later than what they would have if an owl had delivered them since McGonagall had planned to visit. Pandora was a whirlwind of action afterwards, gathering things together to send us off. She was sore to see us go, grumbling not just a few times on how she could teach us everything we needed to know if we were to stay home. She was most reluctant to depart from us, particularly James. It would be the first time since James' parents were alive that she and he would be separated for so long.

Two days before we were due to load Hogwarts Express, Pandora Flooed us to Diagon Alley. There was an argument between her and James about what sort of animals Pandora would buy. Neither James nor I wanted a rat or a toad, and Pandora thought it impractical to get two owls.

James got an owl, and I selected a cat.

It was not to deliberately sic the cat on the owl, as Pandora must have suspected when she saw the giant striped tomcat I chose. I did so because I remembered the wild cats in the slums and how I liked catching one to pet, disregarding the scratches the cat would administer in its wild fright. If there was anything intentional about choosing a cat, it was because James made the stray comment about Sirius disliking them to the point where they made him slightly paranoid. Motive? Me? Of course. I did everything with a motive in mind, and if getting a cat was a permissible way to irritate Sirius then so I would get a cat.

Pandora did not buy us our books as we already had copies somewhere in the piles of books stored beneath Dinsmore. After that, she took us over to a shop that is long gone now. It was a clothing shop for menfolk. Pandora was a shocking sight as she was the only female in the store, the rest being male. We were whisked away to get our measurements, and Pandora settled to read a paper.

As James and I stood side by side with measurement tape wrapped around our torsos and waists and such, in walked Romono Malfoy and his son. Lucius did a doublet-take at seeing me while Romono found out he had to wait for Lucius to be serviced. Both broke into loud shouting. Romono shouted at the manservant for not knowing who he was, and Lucius shouted of how I was that horrid bastard who kicked him in the ribs.

James looked at me. "You kicked Cousin Lucius?" he whispered with wide eyes. I was not sure how to reply, so I shrugged. James broke into a large grin and rubbed his hands together. "I've wanted to do that for years!"

The Malfoys used to spend holidays with the Potters due to their common relations until James and Sirius, tired of catering to the spoiled Lucius, gave him exploding eggnog. This was only the first of multiple tricks. The Christmas before Pandora adopted me was the last holiday the Malfoys spent with the Potters. Romono could only stand to see two pranksters jest with his beloved son for so long.

Lucius hated and despised those who got the best of him in any way. He sought, at all times after his pride was hurt, revenge. Revenge that would mortify his target and, in many cases, do very serious harm.

Romono would not listen to Lucius, so the boy fell silent. But as he was silent, he glared at me and James. In those cold grey eyes, I saw a vicious and cruel child despite how he was actually nearly sixteen; one who used any means to an end in which to prove himself superior. I knew then why James disliked Lucius though I couldn't understand how James managed to live as long as he had for all the trouble he caused. This was not just a spoiled brat who could be petty and vindictive at times, but at the age of ten, I saw a shadow akin to the bottomless eyes of the man once called Tom Riddle.

Lucius could and would aspire to be feared by others, for such is his personality. He does not believe in domination; he sees nothing in the use of anyone whose blood was not pure. He desires annihilation. He thirsts for blood and pain.

Family life seems to agree with him though. He has mellowed out greatly after Draco was born. But before Draco was born — before Lucius was married, I should say — he was sadistic and cruel, delighting in the torment of others. He rose quickly in power when he joined with Voldemort, swiftly entering the ranks of Voldemort's innermost circle. He delighted in playing with victims, though he could be terribly unimaginative in comparison to Bellatrix LeStrange.

A few moments after meeting Lucius' eyes, Pandora, clutching a copy of _The_ _Daily Prophet_ in her hands, wandered into the dressing room. She looked at Romono, who had not noticed her, and then at Lucius, who continued to glare at me. She rolled her newspaper up, marched over to Romono, and swatted him soundly. Romono was ready to scream bloody murder over such a transgression, but his bluster wilted upon seeing Pandora.

Having gained his attention, Pandora unrolled her newspaper and opened it up with a deft snap of her wrists. "Lucius must wait because my grandsons are getting measured," she replied as she turned away from him. Romono cast a withering look over at James and me, while Lucius never broke eye contact with us.

I felt a dark foreboding while looking at Lucius, as if it was a warning of what would come later. It truly was, and I abhor the man even more than I hate Sirius.

* * *

I was frightened at the idea of attending Hogwarts. It was partially because Lucius would be there, partially because Pandora would not, and partially because I would be stuck with such people like Sirius and James for a very long time. I had lived for only five years in Dinsmore, a little less than half my lifetime, whereas the other half was spent on the streets. I did not want to leave Dinsmore; it was safe and warm, the food was good, and there was a multitude of knowledge to be had from exploring its library. At Hogwarts would be people, and because Pandora had caused quite a stir in the wizarding world for adopting a little gutter rat, I knew I would be the centre of many a stare and whispered word.

When the sun rose on September 1st, it found me at the foot of Severus' portrait. It was crowded as the twins, Oliver, and Francis had all joined him in seeing me off. Seeing how depressed I felt, they tried their best to cheer me up. It did not work.

In the end the twins wrestled with their father and grandfather, flinging each other all over within the frame, and poor Oliver sat to the side, looking as miserable as I felt.

I did not desire to leave any of these persons. They may have only been portraits and mere shadows of the long-dead people they represented, but they were still my family. The twins were like Sirius in their desire to joke with me, but they knew when enough as enough. Oliver was the only real father-figure I had in my youth. Severus I admired and loved for his attitude of the-devil-be-damned-with-everyone-else. Francis treated me like an equal, answering my endless questions on theories and hypothesizes.

I would miss them dearly after I left. 


	8. Voldemort and Pandora

_In which Severus Snape has a near-death experience. _

* * *

Pandora took us to the King's Cross Station on September 1st. We unloaded our things from the train, and moved from platform eighteen to the space between platforms nine and ten. It was sort of an outing for the others, as many of the neighbourhood children starting their first year with us came without their parents. Frank Longbottom's mother came though, so there was little rambunctious behaviour. There were twelve children from Dinsmore all together, with only four of us beginning our first year; Sirius, Remus, Frank, Alice, myself, and the others you would never have heard and really have no importance whatsoever. At least, not to my knowledge.

We met Lily and her parents as well as four other Muggle-born wizards and witches and their families at that space. As Pandora explained to the parents how the children should enter, Mrs. Longbottom lined us up and directed us through the pillar. I was the second to the last of the Dinsmore children before the Muggle-born children, with Frank just behind me. As we pulled our luggage from behind, Lily stumbled after us with her cart on tow.

James, Sirius, and Remus swiftly entered the train, eager to explore the area and to establish their reputation of being troublemakers. The other children babbled of how excited they were, the things they would learn and see, and into what House they expected to be Sorted. Most of the children were familiar with one another except the Muggle-born. Lily must have felt oddly out of place. Being an elder brother brings out the protective side of a person, so I naturally took her under my care.

I grabbed her by the elbow and together we entered the train along with the rest of the late loaders. I saw Pandora standing near the platform's entrance, one hand pressed down upon her battered old straw hat to prevent the wind from tugging it free. She looked ready to cry, especially when James waved goodbye to her.

Lily, Frank, and I chose to sit together in a single compartment during the trip to Hogwarts. Lily smiled and grinned at the sounds of explosions, angry cries, Sirius' and James' triumphant yowls of laughter, and people demanding loudly to know who had done what. I believe that fiasco involved pigeon droppings and dung bombs. Frank left to grab James and Sirius and make them sit down and stay out of trouble. Only a few moments had passed before someone stumbled into our compartment, trembling and wide-eyed with terror.

"Hide me!" he squealed in the same manner as a stuck pig. "They're out to get me!" He scrambled beneath one of the berths, concealing himself behind my legs and gasping desperately for air. Mind you, nothing was ever done to him. Not intentionally, perhaps; I later heard that his compartment had been right next to the explosion and it made his ears ring terribly.

So my first impression of Peter was, and remained since, that he was a snivelling coward.

Peter was, for all intent and purpose, what Neville is like. Nervous, jumpy, scared of even his own shadow, willing to do anything to save his own hide. Or perhaps I'm biased. He certainly wouldn't have made a very good gutter rat.

I knew, oh, I _knew_ he was a spy for Voldemort. I did not know, until Dumbledore told me a few weeks back when he informed me he thought it wise to write all that I know for your sake, that _Peter_ was _James' keeper_. For years I thought it was Sirius who betrayed the secret of James' whereabouts to Voldemort, and I hated him. Sirius and James had been closer than James and I together had ever been, and then it was _he_ who betrayed James while _I_ sacrificed everything to help James.

Peter was protected and nurtured by James. Peter would have flunked the school and would have had to clean toilets for a living were it not for the combined efforts of Lily, Remus, and myself in tutoring him to the point where he would get acceptable grades, albeit barely. I lean hard on Neville because I _do not want to see another Peter._ Through any which way of the matter, Peter was coddled and taken care of by everyone, from students to teachers, and became a traitor. If coddling was what created Peter, giving him what confidence he had so there was no one intimidating enough to prevent him from joining Voldemort, then any terror I cultivate in Neville will keep him too cowed to suffer the same fate. Should Neville ever be captured, it is my hope he dies of fright before anything happens. Or bite off his tongue in fear and bleed to death.

Upon our arrival, we met Rubeus Hagrid, who explained to us (the first years) we were to cross the lake on boats and our luggage would be taken to Hogwarts for us. For some reason, the other years were required to ride in the boats with us as well. If I recall correctly, it was because some Amazon termites had escaped from Hagrid's supplies and had managed to consume many a carriage wheel the day before this, leaving only a few carriages in useable condition.

Hagrid was very daunting to someone like me. He intimidated many of the others as well, but Sirius, again with those troublemaker's senses, could tell this was someone with a very high tolerance level. Sirius attached himself to Hagrid, and James, who did everything with Sirius, did the same. As both spoke excitedly about their surroundings and the school, Lily and I stood off to the side as I watched the older children crowding in the only five carriages present; some could not fit so they wandered down to the lakeside and began to choose boats.

Peter, for some odd reason, thought I was his protector. He affixed himself to my side, and though I tried to scare him away with dirty looks, he refused to budge. Not even the occasional jab in the side with a sharp elbow would deter him. Perhaps he thought I was merely clumsy. Perhaps the ringing in his ears meant his brain cells were irrevocably scrambled.

When Hagrid called out four to a boat, I climbed into an empty boat. Peter trailed behind; we two were the only ones who sat together in it as other children scattered. Lily trotted off to sit with James, Sirius, and Remus. Since I was conveniently located in a boat with neither James nor Sirius near by, Lucius decided to ride with me. Any who approached for the remaining spot in the boat he scowled at until they decided to ride in another.

I knew Lucius was up to something the moment he sat at the head of the boat. The deviant smugness in his eyes made the hair on the back of my neck rise in sharp warning, but I stood my ground and stared back, just as Pandora would have. Nothing was said as Hagrid jumped into his own boat and all the boats were pulled, or pushed, by some magical force across the lake to the shore on the other side. Peter clung to the sides of the boat, his knuckles white from the force with which he gripped.

Lucius glanced over his shoulder at me. He smiled smugly at me then looked away. I hunched down against the back of the boat. Lucius peered over the side of the boat. I looked over at the boat where James, Sirius, Remus, and Lily were tossing handfuls of water at one another, giggling wildly as their boat rocked wildly from side to side. I felt nauseous just looking at them; Pandora, for some odd reason, never found it in our best interests to teach us how to swim. I found the idea of being pulled across the lake in a boat frightful.

What if James fell in? Did he know how to swim? Was I expected to jump in after him? How upset would Pandora be if I allowed James to drown?

Lucius dipped a hand in the water and then looked from it to me. "Did you know," he began in what everyone else would have mistaken as a conversational tone, "that a giant squid lives at the bottom of the lake? They say that it eats children, and those unruly students whom the teachers cannot control are given to the squid in punishment." He shot a pointed look at James, and I made a mental note to warn James never to accompany Lucius to the lake.

Peter squeaked, much like a mouse caught in a trap. He crouched lower and Lucius flicked water from his fingers at Peter's face. "It follows us, you know," he said quietly. He gazed into the water. "Ready for anyone careless enough to fall in." He looked over his shoulder again at Peter and smiled wickedly. Peter squeaked again and pressed himself against me. I gritted my teeth and tried to push him away, but I was small and skinny and Peter could have easily have been three of me. It was not that Peter was big, but only that I was very small.

"Sev?" I turned my head to see James leaning over the edge of his boat, unnoticed by the others. He looked concerned, but I shook my head to assure him everything was fine. His eyes flickered from Lucius to me. I smiled; it did nothing to elevate James' worry. As James turned back to Lily, who was tugging his sleeve and brimming with all sorts of questions about Hogwarts, I settled back against the boat.

Lucius looked over his shoulder at me again. Something within me withered at the vicious gleam in his eyes. He stood up suddenly in the boat. "Hark!" he cried with a light voice, ignoring the protests of myself and Peter and the demands from the other boats' occupants. "It comes! It's hungry!" He lunged suddenly across the boat with his arms open to Peter. "We must offer it a sacrifice!"

I jumped forward and tried to scramble out of the way, which is difficult in those boats. Peter's bulk heaved against me. As Lucius lurched forward, the boat tottered wildly. With a wild laugh, Lucius shoved Peter against me, and the two of us toppled over into the water.

I had mentioned I could not swim, yes?

I am proud to say that in those first few moments, when my body hit the rigid waters with a mighty splash and Peter landed on top of me, I did not panic. However, the same could not be said for Peter. Peter was already stupefied with fright from many different things, from James and Sirius and their explosions, the infernal ringing in his ears, the immensity of Hogwarts, to Lucius. I had no idea if he could swim either, but lard floats and Peter certainly had more than I did.

I _did_ begin to panic when Peter groped wildly at me, pushing me down into the depths of the lake's inky black waters in an attempt to climb on top of me and stay in sight of the others lest a giant squid decided to eat him. I could wiggle free as if I were on dry ground, but no matter what I did I found myself trapped. I dimly remember a voice shouting, "James! No!" and then another splash of water, before Peter clubbed me in the head with a flailing elbow. I sank lower, beneath the water's surface, dizzy and incoherent. My chest constricted for air and I reflectively took a breath.

Drowning is a terrible way to die. The first thing I was aware of as I drew a lungful of water was a chill that invaded my body, and then a deep stinging at the very top of my head. An iron band wrapped itself around my chest and squeezed as dancing spots of dark violet, blue, and black appeared in my blurred vision. I felt disoriented and miserable, unable to think of anything but air. I could not tell what was up or down. Bubbles and currents created from my panicked thrashing obscured any light that may have filtered from the surface.

It may have been only a matter of seconds before I was too drained from lack of oxygen and too affected by the cold to struggle anymore. To me, even as I now replay the memories, it was like a lifetime. The desperation I felt in that moment for help, knowing all my dreams and all my ambitions would end within a watery grave, was overpowering.

I knew I should have stayed home with the portraits.

Now, there are two other ways my life could have taken a turn other than the way it had. One, I would have drowned for sure, and then I swear I would have haunted Lucius Malfoy, scaring away any potential child-bearing woman he met to disallow any possibility of breeding. Two, James, to his credit, who jumped into the lake with the intent of saving me, would have succeeded.

However, neither of these happened.

I have owed some outrageous debts in my time. To Sirius, I owe a lifetime of pranks, humiliation, and annoyance. To James I owed my loyalty and, yes, love. To Pandora, I owed a wonderful childhood, and a great deal more just for giving me a better chance to succeed.

And to Voldemort, I owe my life. There is no doubt in my mind that Voldemort rescued me from my watery grave.

You have no idea how mortifying I find this debt. And yet it is not a debt, for it was cancelled when Voldemort turned me into one of his own.

I do not know how long I was in the lake, but I awoke in a pair of warm arms. A shimmering silver material was wrapped around us and it was warm too, though I shivered violently. It was the first thing of which I was aware, and I thought Pandora was holding me close. But it didn't smell like Pandora. I then realized we (myself and whoever held me) floated far above the lake. It was almost twilight and the blowing wind whipped the silvery material about. The broom we sat upon rotated lazily around in a circle.

I saw Hogwarts in the distance, with its jutting pinnacles and towers that rose every which way, disjointed yet strangely elegant. Little black figures roamed the courtyards within the walls and scampered frantically on the grounds outside. Beyond it was a forest that towering above the castle, a foreboding green with dark shadows mingling amongst the tree trunks. I felt relaxed and safe in the person's arms as I looked across the sprawling countryside. This moment differed immensely from the first time I had flown, encased within Pandora's arms, across London during the late night. That had been wonderful, but this was magnificent.

The wind blew again and I recovered enough from my surprise to realize how wet my clothes were. They hung about my body almost like sheets of ice. My shivering became violent and the arms around me tightened slightly, a hiss of magic blanketing warmth against my skin. I looked up to my rescuer and nearly died from shock.

Twisted, dark, and unnatural. The dark eyes that peered outward _saw_ all there was to be seen. It was a handsome profile, or had been once. Then the eyes that gazed across a distance, searching for something dropped down upon myself. I cringed away and hid my face as my thoughts howled in dismay. How could I look at this man? No, not a man, but a monster. Such was the creature that so effortlessly reduced the Potter family — the family that loved and cared for me — to nothing.

This man, for whatever reason, held me now. Why had he rescued me from drowning? No one else knew where I was. Dumbledore, upon learning that I had fallen out of the boat, immediately sought out the Merpeople. They said someone _had_ entered their region, but then swiftly disappeared. James was frantic with worry, and he could only be calmed with promises of Pandora being fetched. James, in his simple way, believed Pandora would find a solution to the problem.

But I knew nothing of what was going on then. All I knew then was Voldemort held me above the ground on his broomstick when I should have been in that cold, dark lake.

As he looked down at me, he smiled. For one brief moment, he seemed _almost_ human. The eyes are the windows to the soul and, very often, you may tell what sort of person someone is by looking in their eyes. For all his power and cunning, Voldemort had very empty eyes. It was as if he had no soul. I could believe he was powerful, but not human.

After he smiled, he turned his gaze across the distance once more. I was freezing and filled with dismay; what would he do to me? Yet all Voldemort did was hold me, cradling me close against his body and offering warmth. My gutter rat's instincts screamed at me to flee no matter the consequences, but the only escape I had was if I wriggled free of Voldemort's grasp and fell to the water below. Naturally, this avenue had little appeal, so I strangled my panic and forced myself to wait in silence.

After what seemed an eternity, something in the air besides clouds moved. A little black dot appeared in the distance, zooming swiftly towards Hogwarts. I heard Voldemort purr in triumph and the broom beneath us leapt forward. I gripped the arms that surrounded me tightly and pressed backwards, frightened at what seemed to me at the time to be a terribly swift speed. Voldemort angled the broom so we turned and flew alongside yet still towards the black dot. The black dot drew closer and I realized it was a person hunched low over the broom, cloak whipping wildly behind.

Voldemort chuckled and flew closer to the broom. The shimmering silver material was pulled away from us and, as he tucked it away sage, I realized it had been an invisible cloak. "Pandora!" he called. The figure on the broom swerved and dipped suddenly then whipped around twice before steadying.

Pandora's expression, from what I could make out in the distance, was that of alarmed horror. She remained still, frozen like a cornered, feral beast as Voldemort flew close. He came to a stop at her side and grinned cruelly at her. "I went fishing and caught a minnow." He looked down at me and smiled once more. "I'm torn; I cannot quite make up my mind of what I want to do with this child."

Pandora's eyes flickered from Voldemort to me. "Are you all right, Severus?" she asked, momentarily ignoring Voldemort.

I hunched down in my frozen robes. "I'm cold," I said mournfully, feeling as miserable as I looked. Pandora didn't appear so formable next to Voldemort with her head bare and hair tangled, her face splotchy and drawn.

"He'll catch his death if you keep him like this," Pandora said sharply. "Look at him shiver." She held her arms out to me as she gazed directly at Voldemort. What must of those eyes have seen as they met his? She saw much more than I did, and what did _his_ eyes see in retaliation?

Voldemort laughed again and shook a finger at Pandora. "No, I think not." With one hand, he pulled his dark cloak around me. "He'll catch his death of something far worse than just a pitiful cold if I desire." He rested his cheek against the top of my head. "Which I may or may not decide, still."

"Please, Riddle," neither Pandora's hands nor eyes wavered, "please give him to me."

Voldemort whipped his broom around so his back faced her. "I gave sanctuary to one child only!" he snapped angrily. Then he laughed serenely. "What makes this child, this gutter rat, so special that you would care for him as your own flesh and blood?"

Did I sense a slight hint of bitterness in Voldemort's words? Why did the man once known as Tom Riddle and the woman who was formally a Snape throw words back and forth? What games did Voldemort and Pandora play with one other? I grant you not even Dumbledore realized the depths of their interactions. Pandora's power was nothing compared to Voldemort, but Voldemort held some regard for her and may have even trusted her to a minute degree – an abysmal nothing, it would seem, but as this was Voldemort, well… such a concession was granted to no one else, and it left Pandora a marginal amount of leeway. That was more than anyone alive could claim.

Why did Voldemort seek to ruin the Potter family and yet did nothing to the woman who held it together and elevated it to what it was time after bloody, endless time? That man wouldn't recognize affection if it came up from behind with its name branded across its forehead and bit him in the arse, but he felt something, or thought he felt something, for Pandora. What did Pandora do that night of your parents' death to have reduced Voldemort into shambles of what he had once been?

"Magic called to blood and blood answered," Pandora replied softly. I heard a soft rustling. Pandora dipped beneath Voldemort and floated up before him. Her eyes pleaded in a way her voice did not. "Why should I have left him on the streets to starve?"

"I doubt he is pure," Voldemort whispered.

"No one can deny that he is not, but I have given him my father's name!" I felt Voldemort's rage flare, felt his body tense in fury, but Pandora continued. "He is an unknown. Better to learn than to wonder, to marvel at the treasure he is, and for that _he bears my father's name_! I will not have you shame Da even if it is through my son!"

Knowledge is power, and Voldemort hungered for power. Even as he burned with more power than anyone living had ever seen, he desired for so much more. But power could only be attained through knowledge. Why the need to dominate others? It was not just the action or the doing he desired, but the _knowing._ Knowing he was the greatest and the most powerful, and knowing that everyone else knew, was — no, _is _— his ultimate goal even if he must cram that concept down people's protesting throats. But what is the appreciation of this by those who truly do not fully understand? This is lost, he feels, upon those who are not pure. If they are not pure, they are imperfect, and therefore are incapable of fully knowing and understanding that he is the greatest.

"You shamed him yourself from the moment you joined with a mudblood!" Voldemort bristled when he realized that Pandora had pushed his control, and he seized my throat. Pandora cried out in dismay and nearly fell off her broomstick to grab me free. He swung out of her reach and relaxed his grip as I gasped for air. "What do I care for this 'treasure'? Mudblood is mudblood. It is sullied and impure, a freak _accident_ of two Muggles joined. A halfblood is tainted, that line destroyed forever - how could _you_, Pandora?"

Perhaps there was a reason why the Potter family was destroyed. Francis Potter was a wizard from a Muggle family and he joined with the Snape family — a family with long bloodlines of absolute purity. The idea that the bloodlines were engulfed in that name must have irritated and maddened Voldemort, especially when that very mudblood responsible was a gifted genius. And it must have infuriated him to know that a worthless, nameless gutter rat was given the honour to continue a heritage with which it shared not a single drop of blood.

But why did Voldemort grant sanctuary to James? Was it to protect the true Snape bloodline? The Malfoys could claim such as easily as James. And if Pandora had sullied and destroyed her bloodline by joining with Francis, why was she still alive instead of joining the ranks of dead with her husband and children? Well, I know the answer to _that_ question – burying the pieces of her loved ones, flesh by drop by scrap, forced to mourn alone and continue living with such memories hanging over her head was a fate far more cruel than death itself.

And, yes, these questions have everything to do with you, Harry. A mother's love alone cannot protect a child from a powerful spell. Even when Voldemort was stripped of his power he was still too strong for even a dozen Aurors to fight with the hope of winning. What is it within your bloodline that protected you from Voldemort's harm? That bloodline, joined with a mother's love, for the first time in our known history, deflected the Avada Kedavra curse. How? Voldemort, throughout all those years, was after something only Pandora could give – was that it? Was that why Voldemort tolerated Pandora?

Brother wands do not regurgitate past spells when pitted against one another. The more powerful one engulfs the weaker one, mingling power together to become stronger than before. _Unless the wand wielders are near equal in power, they do not force past spells to emerge and manifest themselves in reverse. _

Why did none of _your_ spells manifest themselves? Why did only Voldemort's past spells emerge? What is it within your bloodline that gives you the capability to break all rules in such a manner? Dumbledore has told me everything you have ever told him concerning Voldemort so I could make sense of the entire picture with my knowledge of your heritage, but I only get jumbled colours and crooked lines. Do you see a pattern emerging from this misshapen mess? I do not.

"I have use," Voldemort said, "for a bastard such as this one. He would make a wonderful plaything."

"Riddle, no. Please, give him to me." Pandora held her arms out to me once more. I dearly wanted to leap from Voldemort's grasp into her own. As if he anticipated my thoughts, Voldemort pulled his black cloak tighter around me.

"Convince me. Why?"

Pandora could not answer. Any answer she gave him would have been either inadequate or scorned. Voldemort nudged his broom close so their legs brushed. "Why should I?" he asked again, reaching one hand from out of the cloak's folds to stroke her cheek. "I have already left you a loved one; if I had meant for you to have two, dear little Jonathon would have been left whole."

I watched in horror as Pandora slumped, her dignity withered away. She looked like a terrified old woman – like someone else's grandmother – and I had a sudden vision of her dying of grief before I reached my adulthood. I snarled and tried to bite Voldemort, but he cuffed my ear and Pandora flinched.

"It hurts Pandora!" I cried. "I don't care if I die here or the slums, but I won't hurt Pandora! What do you gain – why should you kill me? What does anything have to do with anything? What does everything have to do with everything? What difference does any of this make? I don't know what I am, but I really don't care! Should I? If I don't care, should _you_ care? Why should a little gutter rat like me be even worth the trouble of being killed? Actually I do care so maybe you should!" I wanted to cry; I wanted to scream; I wanted to hold Pandora close and make her young once more.

And Voldemort laughed.

I have no idea if either Pandora or Voldemort understood. Pandora's eyes brimmed with tears as she gazed at me, and Voldemort laughed.

"Foolish child," Voldemort said to Pandora with mirth in his voice. "Very foolish, young, but worldly." He grabbed a handful of hair to tug my head back and look into my eyes; my skin was too numb for me to feel the sharp sting of his grip. Within those dark, soulless depths, I saw something that reminded me of Sirius' eyes whenever he had an urge to play a prank. The look had nothing to do with the _idea_ of the prank, but only the urge. It was a driving, burning need for something I could not name. He released me and turned towards Pandora. After a moment of silence, he said, "Slytherin. And for that _alone_ I will allow him to live."

With those words, he shoved me into a surprised Pandora. She wrapped her arms and cloak protectively around me, hunching close to shield me from him. She smelled as sweet as the first time she had held me.

A wind blew Voldemort's black cloak out and ruffled his black hair. For a single moment, I saw him as to what he was always a shadow of; I saw him as a handsome and charming man. And then he smiled and tilted his head so his eyes fell upon me, and once more he was unnatural and twisted. "But," he warned softly, "merely because I give the gutter rat to you now does not mean he has the sanctuary I grant your real grandson. But you needn't fear; I may have use for such a gutter rat, a use that wouldn't sully your father's name." He pulled his invisible cloak out and wrapped it around himself, disappearing from our sight.

Pandora floated a few moments, waiting to see if anything more would happen. With a deep sigh, she hugged me close and the broom moved forward.

"Severus," Pandora whispered. "Tell no one of this so long as you live." Her fingers pinched my shoulder. "Promise."

"Why?" I wondered. She shook her head and pinched me harder.

"You _cannot_ tell."

"I promise."

I have kept my promise. As you read this, I am dead. The seal upon these papers assure only _you_ may open them and read the written content. I have told no one of what happened so long as I lived. Indeed, many of this I have told no one so long as I lived.

And now you get to carry the burden of our heritage.

My condolences; it is a very heavy load.


	9. Discovery of Remus' Nature

_In which Severus Snape has __**another** _near-death experience. Also: the early Hogwarts years.

* * *

Do you know why so few people speak of your family, even to mention James and Lily? It is because the Ministry of Magic placed a ban upon all mention of the Potter family. I do not truly know why though. There is a rumour Pandora betrayed James and Lily to Voldemort, but of course no one could explain where Sirius fits in were that so. Perhaps the Ministry is ashamed that Pandora would break her vows to fight Voldemort, and was killed for it. Perhaps Lucius pushed for the ban.

When true heroes are forgotten, the common enemy becomes much more frightening. Pandora's children were rarely mentioned anywhere even when she was still alive, for theirs is the stuff from which true nightmares are created. Poor Francis, because he was Muggleborn and the Ministry feared to anger Voldemort and his Death Eaters more than what they deemed necessary, was struck from the records books for all of his contributions.

When you can, please rectify this. It is not right that Francis, Pandora, Oliver, and the twins, for all that they have done and suffered, should be forgotten so easily.

* * *

There were many who witnessed our arrival to Hogwarts' courtyard. Pandora ignored the questions that rained down upon us by gathered teachers and elder students. She wordlessly pushed her broom into the arms of a prefect and carried me into the castle. Directly to the infirmary we marched. As she carried me, she called out for Albus Dumbledore.

"We have to check your temperature, warm your body up, search for any unseen injuries." Pandora rattled off a list of things that had to be addressed. She expressed worry for my cold condition, but said I was not as bad as she thought. At the time, my teeth chattered loudly as my entire body continuously shivered. Had I been listless or hallucinating, she would have been more worried.

Just before we reached the infirmary, a dark shadow ran full-tilt down the hallway. "Grandmother!" he called. "Sev!" Pandora's pace slowed slightly and James dashed to her side, grabbing at one arm that nearly had all three of us falling to the floor. "Is he okay?" he asked, his voice full of concern. "I jumped in after him, but I couldn't find him and Hagrid pulled me out."

"He will be fine."

"Where was he?"

James saw the way Pandora flinched and hesitated with her answer. "By the shore," she replied finally as we swept through the doors that opened to the infirmary. "I found him by the shore."

No one said anything as a plump woman in white grabbed me from Pandora and hauled me to a bed. I was stripped naked and wrapped tightly in blankets warmed with multiple charms. As Dumbledore entered the infirmary and I saw him for the first time, Pandora set up a tray of scalding hot soup with which to force-feed me. James perched on the end of my bed, his feet swinging free as the woman in white — Madam Carnish, who would be replaced by Madam Poppy Pomfrey in two short years — addressed Dumbledore.

"He'll be fine," the woman explained as the old man tottered over to me, "we just have to get him warmed up." Dumbledore looked no different in the days of my youth. He still wore his flowing robes, had a long white beard, and a pair of glasses perched at the very end of his nose. He looked at me over these.

"James tells me that Lucius Malfoy pushed you from the boat, and Malfoy tells me that you and Peter Pettigrew fell accidentally out of the boat." At the mention of Lucius, Pandora became angry; I had a smug feeling that Romono would be hearing from her. "Pettigrew was hysterical and kept saying he was going to be eaten by a squid. What do _you_ think happened?"

Pandora brought the platter over to me. She stood beside Dumbledore, expecting an answer from me as well. I hunched deeper into my warmed blankets. "I think that Lucius meant to scare us." Whether or not he truly meant for us to fall out of the boat I myself could not say.

"You're not scared, are you?" Dumbledore asked. I shook my head silently. Dumbledore looked at Pandora. "Where did you find him?"

Pandora remained steady as she answered. "By the shore." It was the truth for I was close to the shore, but Dumbledore gave her a look that said _he_ knew she was not telling him everything. She resolutely pressed her lips together and did her best to look like an unmoving rock.

"Well, young man," Dumbledore said as he patted the top of my bundled head, "it appears that you get an extra-special ceremony." He turned from me to McGonagall, who stood beside the doors of the infirmary. "Bring the Sorting Hat here," he said. She nodded and left. Dumbledore sat down on the bed between James and me. "We carried on with the ceremony while a few teachers sought you out; we deemed it wisest so as not to alarm the other students. A shame; the Sorting Hat had a very nice song this year. But you will be sorted into the House best suited for you and your purposes, and your things will be located to it."

"He's staying here for the night." Madam Carnish's words left no room for argument.

Dumbledore scooted to the side as Pandora set the tray before me and fussed with the arrangements of napkin, fork, and bowl of steaming beef broth. James peered around Dumbledore at me, then grabbed my hand and refused to let go even when I tried to shake it free. As Pandora spooned the hot broth into my mouth, James babbled about his Sorting, the Great Hall, the people at the tables, all the different sorts of food. "I got sorted into Gryffindor!" he prattled. "So did Sirius, Remus, Lily, and Peter Pettigrew, that person who rode with you in the boat!"

"All of you?" Pandora paused in feeding me. She looked at Dumbledore, who shrugged.

"It is not unusual for children who know each other to wind up in the same House," he explained. James hugged himself in giddy delight.

"I hope you're in Gryffindor too!" he told me. "Then we will _all_ be together!"

I stared at him sourly. Why would I want to live in the same House as Sirius, Remus and that frightened fat slob who flattened me in the lake for the next seven years? The thought was appalling at best and I dearly hoped for anything besides Gryffindor. Even Hufflepuff! At that moment, McGonagall entered the infirmary with the Sorting Hat reverently carried in her hands. Trailing behind her were Frank, Lily, Sirius, and Remus.

"Are you all right?" Frank asked.

McGonagall ignored the glare Madam Carnish gave her. "They were concerned," she said to Pandora and Dumbledore, "and rather than having them camp outside the infirmary for news of Snape here, I decided to allow them in."

"Wonderful!" Dumbledore exclaimed cheerfully as Madam Carnish opened her mouth to protest. "We will have our own Sorting Ceremony for young Mister Snape!" He and James leapt to their feet. As Pandora set the tray to the side, everyone ringed around my bed. Pandora gently pulled the blankets away from my head, looping the folds around my bare shoulders. She stepped back and McGonagall set the Sorting Hat on my head.

There is no need to say what the Sorting Hat told me. As a gutter rat, loyalty and dependability was things for which I had very little need. I firmly believed that bravery could get me killed, since discretion was a better part of valour and such is the life code of gutter rats everywhere. Trust? Me? Bah! Because of my background as a gutter rat, I was terribly suspicious and filled with a need to aspire to something that would forever keep me out of the slums.

Naturally, my best House would be Slytherin. I was too harsh to belong in Hufflepuff, did not have the dependability or honour for Ravenclaw, and lacked the much-needed bravado for Gryffindor. "To cultivate what you wish to become," explained the Hat to me before loudly announcing Slytherin.

Pandora beamed proudly as the waiting smiles on the faces of my childhood companions dropped into open-mouth surprise and shock. Pandora did not seem to notice as McGonagall took the away Sorting Hat. She threw her arms around me in a hug. I smiled smugly at James. He might have wound up in the House of his grandfather, but I was a Snape and, true to form, was in Pandora's House.

As Dumbledore and McGonagall left the infirmary and Madam Carnish went off to mix potions for medication, James leaned close. "That's where Cousin Lucius is," he whispered. From the way everyone looked, I could tell that I wasn't Lucius' only victim, or at least they had had, overall, a bad experience with Slytherin students already. Pandora pulled the blankets over my head again until the material draped before my vision and fed me more of the broth.

If I had had a choice between Slytherin, with Lucius, and Gryffindor, with everyone else, I still would have chosen Slytherin. There are few persons anywhere who could rival me with my ability to go unnoticed, and fewer persons who could find me if I did not wish to be found. I could live with Lucius being in the same House; it mattered not to me. There was only one of him for two years, versus six in Gryffindor for at seven years, among them being James who could find me if he searched long enough, and Sirius, who had a better ability of finding me than James did. I do not know how Sirius managed this then, and I _still_ do not know why now, but I find I quite dislike this concept.

However, the idea that the students of Gryffindor and Slytherin had to be segregated at all times but classes did not seem to sit well with my companions. They did not, in general, put up with most of those in Slytherin, and visa versa. Most of those who wound up in Slytherin felt themselves superior and were selfish. These personality traits are common amongst Slytherins, and it may be because they believe themselves to be greater than anyone else. Many of them are right in that assumption, but I will not digress.

The Gryffindors, with their trustworthiness and bravery, could not stand the behaviour and attitude of the Slytherins. So, when one pitted against the other, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw both dodged out of sight lest they got caught between hurled hexes and anything small enough to be heaved across the room.

Now, there were a few exceptions to the rules of people being placed in Houses most suited for their personality. Peter did not go well with Gryffindors in the least. He was a cowardly idiot with a sense of dignity the size of my belief in mankind's goodness. For this reason, perhaps, James saw fit to help the dimwit. Because James accepted Peter, Sirius and Remus did as well, with Lily discouraging Sirius from pulling what pranks he could on Peter. Too, there was myself. James often went out of his way to seek me out, if just to ask me how my day was going, what was our current project in Potions, how did my flying go, and have I seen the latest letter from Pandora? Oh, and could he borrow my notes from such and such class or maybe study together with me?

Why he sought me out for help I have no idea. James did well enough in his classes that he had no need for it and his knowledge of Dark Arts was almost equal to my own. That could be attested to having a legal guardian with a formable amount of knowledge on Dark Arts and how to defend against them. For whatever reason though, he also commenced to drag along failing students of his House I could tutor.

Did I refuse? Rarely. I liked spreading knowledge around, seeing the looks in my fellow students' eyes as they appreciated what they were learning and burned to learn more of it. Sometimes, I felt I knew how Pandora and Francis must have felt when they taught to those who came to them for knowledge. However, teaching was not something in which I wanted a career. For every appreciate student I taught, there were also the birdbrains one has to beat information in — repeatedly. Peter was a classic example.

Every weekend, I would find myself in the library seated on one side of that imbecile with Remus on the other and Lily directly across the table from us, a large pile of books in the middle. We made him memorize things, write papers, do multiple tasks and experiments, all so he could understand one single thing at a time.

That was how I spent my Saturday evenings for four years steady. I suppose it would not have mattered one way or another, seeing as how my social life was nearly the same size as Sirius' attention span.

I will not go into detail of my first four years at Hogwarts, or all seven, though the first four and the last three years are split by a significant occurrence in the middle.

I am not, nor have I ever been, a sociable person. I tended to be quiet and watch everyone. Better it is, indeed, to watch another acting as a fool rather than one's self being the fool. Every semester was a whirlwind of learning and seeing new things. Every Christmas and Easter was spent at Dinsmore with Pandora as well as anyone who wanted to go with her for the holidays instead of staying at Hogwarts with the teachers. James was quite interested in Quidditch, something Oliver, Francis, or I could not quite understand. You must realize we were not very sporty people. I flew on a broom only when I had to, Oliver preferred to have his feet on the ground, and Francis had a severe phobia of heights.

Pandora was hardly troubled with James being a Chaser for the Gryffindor team by our second year and my not bothering to try out for the Slytherin team. She was rather proud either way, and came to as many games as she possibly could. If Gryffindor played against Slytherin, rather than choosing favourites because of both grandsons in both Houses and her own old loyalties, Pandora sat directly behind the scorekeeper and cheerfully waved the Slytherin flag in one hand and the Gryffindor flag in the other with me, sullenly forced to do the same, seated at her side.

I rarely watched my House team practice. If asked and I answered honestly, I would have to say I felt more loyalty to the Gryffindor team than the Slytherin team, which was true when one considered how my brother was on the Gryffindor team and Lucius was on the Slytherin team. Cold mornings and late evenings would occasionally see me seated beside Remus and Lily on the bleachers, watching James and Sirius practice.

James was like a bird, smooth, graceful, quick, and spirited. I loved to watch him fly; he looked so carefree and joyous. It was a far better sight than seeing the Slytherin team knocking each other's heads in at every chance they had. James took to flying as if he had lived his whole life in preparation for those moments when he was seated on the broom. James was unnaturally graceful, and it showed whenever he flew.

The Slytherins could not understand how I could be so close to any Gryffindor. Again, if asked I would have said that merely being with them did not mean I was close to them. This is true. While I tutored, watched James play Quidditch, listened to him shout things to me across the tables in the dining hall, and somehow getting dragged into group outings to Hogsmeade, we truly did nothing intimate together or confided secrets with one another. To a certain degree, as James was my brother, the Slytherins could understand how I would spend time with him, but everyone else? What was the purpose of that? Surely they thought I realized how much greater Slytherin was than Gryffindor, yes?

Lucius rarely did anything to me in those days. He watched me with vicious eyes and waited once more for a chance to physically strike against me. He did not though, so it may have been that being close to James was what protected me against ambushes at night or within empty corridors. However, being close to James did not prevent Lucius from backstabbing, mocking, or gossiping about me whenever the chance arose. That boy spread more malicious rumours about me through the entire school in our years together than Sirius pulled pranks in his seven years at Hogwarts.

James seemed slightly worried about the rumours so he tried to squash them the best he could. With a large following of admirers in Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff, this was fairly easy to do. He used to bring the rumours to me and grouse over them, complaining about how cruel they were and how these people who started them knew nothing about me. My favourite rumour would have to be the one where I was the lovechild between Voldemort and some whore from the streets. I laughed when James told me of it, and continuously snickered for days over the idea that I could be Voldemort's son. With my background and my twice-encounter with Voldemort, I found the situation comical in the least.

As long as I didn't imagine the man actually having sex, _then_ it was comical.

And I realize that image I just seared into your brain was cruel, but at least my misery is now shared in that retrospect.

When Christmas vacation came along — it was in our third year, if I remember correctly — I told Pandora of the rumour. She was not nearly as amused as I, though Francis and Severus both appreciated the humour of the situation. Oliver looked absolutely horrified and the twins composed a raunchy song of how I was a bastard of the bastard.

There were a few others who stood up for me because of our acquaintance and not because they admired James. Lily, who remembered me as the quiet little boy who created sand castles, supported James. Remus, ever quiet and understanding with his own problem, supported me. Frank Longbottom kept the older Slytherins not scared of James from bothering me.

Sirius and Peter, on the other hand, could have cared less. Well-versed with how bitter and sarcastic I could become during our Saturday evening tutoring, Peter stuck with Sirius. Sirius grew quite fond of Peter for some odd reason and would protect him from me whenever possible. He tried to sit in on the tutoring sessions, but Remus assured him that he and Lily would keep me under control, which certainly did not happen.

I believe Sirius was jealous of how close I was to James and how James was so concerned for my welfare. It should have been the other way around. James did not confide secrets with me as in who he liked or some forbidden thing he had gotten away with doing. We only exchanged pleasantries that any stranger could follow.

If I asked James for something, he would help. If he asked me for something, I would help. The only basis of a relationship we had with each other of being brothers was our connection between Pandora. I loved him, but he was one of the few, and saying thus does not at all allow much room for comparison with others. Had I been someone living in another family and had never grown up with James, we would have, perhaps, been violent and bitter enemies.

Had James and Lily lived, we would have drifted apart without a single worry. It hurts though. It hurts to acknowledge how far apart we were. It hurts to be reminded as to what we might have, could have, or would have been if circumstances were slightly different.

Then came the significant event that separates the first four years at Hogwarts, and the last three.

Everyone knew the Forbidden Forest was off-limits. This was because of the creatures that roamed amongst the trees; creatures so great and so terrible even someone like Pandora would have had a problem fighting against them. We used to think the Shrieking Shack was, through one way or another, connected to one or more of the creatures from the Forbidden Forest. There were all sorts of rumours of that, from violent spirits to Death Eater ceremonies.

However, I noticed something off about Remus. When you're together that often with someone, it's hard not to. It was not until the closing of our fourth year when Lily was explaining how Remus would not be helping us tutor Peter as usual because he was sick. It was rare that he would be too "ill" to help us, though we believed this excuse because his appearance the next day was that of harrowed weariness. Remembering back, I realized Remus would disappear for a day each month.

I decided, since Peter was not scheduled for any tests soon, that it would be best just to review what he already knew and then quit for the evening. Lily agreed. When I saw James in the corridor as I walked back to the Slytherin House, I told him to pass my condolences to Remus and how I hope he would feel better soon. James' eyes grew wide behind his glasses and he nodded quickly before trying to hurry past me. Having gotten a growth spurt (or perhaps it was the nutritious food), I was by then quite taller than him.

"Remus is sick, isn't he?" I asked, glaring pointedly down at James. James shuffled his feet, refused to meet my eyes, and nodded while his ears turned bright red.

"Well, yeah. He's very sick." James was an atrocious liar; dependable enough to keep a secret, but an atrocious liar nonetheless.

When it comes to lying, Harry, you are only marginally better at it than your father. On that, you must have inherited from your mother.

I let him go, realizing something was wrong. But whom could I see about this matter? For all his jokes and pranks with Sirius and Remus, people trusted James. I concluded he was worried for Remus, had gotten help, and was told to remain silent about the matter.

That night, tucked into my bed with the covers pulled over my head, I heard another Slytherin grumble something of how it was a full moon and the only reason why Potter got away with sneaking outside during curfew was because he was Pandora's favoured.

I would not have realized it sooner. Full moons rarely fell on Saturdays. Except for our tutoring sessions, I never expected to see Remus anywhere at a regular basis. He could be with James, Sirius, Peter, and Lily, or he could not be. The next morning, Remus was seated at the breakfast table, looking tired, worn, and haggard. After that, I would follow him at evening the best I could, or sit next to the window and pretend to do some late night reading while all the time watching for moving bodies. There were time when I heard sounds from the walls, of thumps and James and Sirius arguing softly or complaining about their feet being trod upon.

The year ended with one more full moon, and while I made a note that Remus seemed ill on the day after the full moon and my brother and his friends were half-asleep on their feet. I could not understand what was going on, and it drove me mad with curiosity. I had my suspicions, but for the summer, the Lupins decided to visit family in Italy and left me without a chance to continue categorizing his days of sicknesses

It was not until Pandora showed up a few weeks after our fifth year had started, telling James he had forgotten his invisible cloak, did I realize there was no possible way I could spot James if he wandered outside after curfew — even if I knew where he was bound. I then concluded these escapades were the usual thing the "Marauders" pulled often enough, and the reason why Remus was so tired was because he spent so much energy trying to keep James and Sirius in check.

At least, that was my theory until, one day very close to a September twilight, seated at the top of the Astronomy Tower with Frank and eating honey buns James had snitched from the kitchen and then gave me as when we crossed paths in the hallway, I saw Poppy Pomfrey leading Remus off the school grounds Frank ignored the matter, declaring it was none of our business. That may have been Frank's attitude, but certainly not mine.

If James knew what was wrong with Remus, then the other Marauders would know as well. If pressured, one of them could drop me enough blatant hints to allow me to learn the secret. Lily was out of the question. I could not stand the idea of having to push her to the brink of becoming upset enough to say something without thinking; besides I doubted she knew anything about the matter. Remus was out of the question as well. He was always too much in control; too cheerful, patient, and easygoing to upset, and much too directly involved in the problem. James could not be budged if he did not care to be and certainly not for me. Sirius was stubborn and, if pushed too far, bound to get violent. I was not keen on the idea having to explain to James or Pandora why Sirius punched me.

That left Peter. The coward could be cornered alone and prodded to the point where he would spill his guts of everything he knew. I underestimated his strength though. Whatever backbone he developed was not because he had it within him but because he borrowed enough of James' strength through the years to create one.

I swept through one of the empty corridors, walking in one direction and Peter came towards me, tromping in the other direction. Our shoulders met as we brushed past one another and my hand caught his sleeve, jerking him off-balance. He stumbled backwards and fell to the floor with a large thump. As he started to get to his feet, I planted a foot on his rotund stomach and pressed him back to the floor.

"I need some words with you," I said casually. Peter shivered and tried to move, but I shifted my weight. "What do you, James, Sirius, and Remus all do at night once a month off school grounds?" He squeaked suddenly and went pale. "Come now," I said, "this is only going to get worse." He squeaked again and shook his head no. I shifted more of my weight onto the foot, pressing against his stomach. He blanched and squeaked again. "Do you know, on my word alone that you have been sneaking out, you could be expelled?"

I could be terrifying if I so desired. I cultivated a quiet and morose appearance in those early years of Hogwarts to discourage people who thought to approach me — not that it worked with James or Frank. From my years on the streets, I knew a number of ways to force information out of a person. Intimidation is a wonderful thing, and one rarely has to enforce one's ability when one is already considered by the majority as intimidating. Constant reinforcement helps the image of intimidation though. I learned _that_ from Voldemort. If there is one thing that may be admired of Voldemort it is that he knows how to _dominate_.

Human nature is the most flexible thing on earth. We humans may be angels, kind and sweet in our devotion and actions towards others. Then too, we can be worse than mindless animals, viciously inflicting immeasurable pain on one another because seeing another's suffering creates a perverted pleasure. A foot pressed against the stomach is more painful than a foot pressed against the chest. The intestines are shoved against the oesophagus beneath the ribcage and misalign the other body organs; this tends to afflict a greater pain than lungs being compressed and ribs bent inward.

I know many dirty ways to cause human suffering through simple inflictions of pain, ways that make a few of Voldemort's curses pale in comparison. Some memories of the slums are very, very clear. I feel no shame to admit thus. It is only knowledge after all, though knowledge is always a dangerous thing to those who would misuse it.

Peter squeaked again, and shook his head, refusing to say anything. "Would you _like_ to be expelled?" I asked. He clamped his jaws shut and managed to gather enough energy to glare at me. I was quite surprised he was capable of this. I shifted more weight onto the foot pressed again his stomach, propping my arms against my leg and folded my fingers into a bridge to rest my chin. I gazed thoughtfully down at him. "I wouldn't mind at all seeing _you_ expelled — or Sirius," I said almost casually. "And if I am forced to go hunting for answers when you have them, I guarantee I would be in a grumpy enough mood to tell the correct authorities — such as McGonagall. She is your Head, is she not?"

He glared at me again. "You're just jealous of us!"

"Jealous?" I dropped my arms and leaned close enough for him to see his pallid reflection in my black eyes. "Why on earth would _I_ be jealous of a group of delinquent hooligans?"

"Let me up!" Peter cried out loudly as he struggled against my weight. I heard running footsteps, and just as I stepped back from Peter, Sirius burst around the corner.

How aptly his surname should be Black! Such is his temper and so easily is it pushed. The look on his face, with me hovering over a downed Peter, was hideously full of rage. He stormed up to me, his hands bunched at his sides in fists, and stopped short at Peter's head. Without breaking eye contact, he bent over and pulled Peter to his feet. When Peter had regained his balance, Sirius gently shoved him to the side. "Go," he said. "I'll deal with Severus."

I folded my hands and looked at Sirius, patiently waiting for him to explode in a tirade of insults towards my parentage (or lack thereof), intelligence, social skills, fashion sense, and anything else he could think. He did not though. He merely studied me for a moment before speaking softly. "What do you want?"

"Information."

"Do you desire this information enough to torture your friend?"

"That fat slob is not my friend."

Sirius's expression, if it was possible, darkened. "Then what is it that you want that you have bully another student for?"

"I said information." He remained silent, still watching me. A look appeared in his eyes, calculating and cunning; two aspects I would never have associated with Sirius Black before.

"The best way to learn is to observe," Sirius said, almost wisely. "So, if you want to learn, go to the Whomping Willow on the evening of—" he fell silent for a moment, calculating a number of days, "—two Thursdays from now. Follow Remus directly from the beginning, poking the base of the Whomping Willow and follow after him." He turned away from me and I heard contempt, so stark and plain, in his voice. "Maybe information isn't _worth_ the price."

Now, Sirius knew me enough that I would study something before making a decision. There was rarely a time in my life when I acted impetuously. He knew I would create a plan before and after learning what I needed, and then move cautiously. So I watched. I slipped out of Hogwarts before sunset on that Thursday, made my way to the Whomping Willow, and found myself a niche in the surrounding woods where I was obscure, yet could still make out the area around the Whomping Willow.

I waited. Around twilight, I saw Remus scurrying quickly to the Whomping Willow. He carried a long stick over his shoulder. He paused just outside of the Willow's flaying branches, crouched close to the ground, and crept up to the base of the tree. He poked a spot on the trunk with the stick. The branches froze, and he slipped between the roots into what seemed to be an impossibly small hole. After a few moments, the branches started to move again. To me, this only added to the secret. I thought about what I saw, could find nothing dangerous about the situation — aside from accidentally getting creamed by the Whomping Willow — and, after several moments passed, I moved. I slipped beneath the branches of the Whomping Willow and saw the bruised area Remus had prodded. I used the same stick Remus used to still the Whomping Willow's branches, and the entrance to the tunnel opened just a glimmer of the moon's rays began to shine beyond the trees.

I entered like a lamb innocently crossing the threshold of an occupied lion's cave. That, as you well know, is hardly far from the truth. I found myself at the end of a tunnel. I decided to follow it to the other end. After some time, I became aware of a deep breathing and short gasps of pain drifting down the tunnel. I felt a sudden flash of worry for Remus, remembering how the Shrieking Shack was filled with screams and how closely connected it seemed to be with the Forbidden Forest. I hurried further down the tunnel and rushed around a corner to slam into someone.

I stumbled back to see Remus staring at me in shock. He cried out in pain, doubling over as he clawed at his shoulders and I reached out to touch him, genuine concern for his welfare on my lips. The cry of pain turned into a predator's snarl. Before my eyes, Remus' human form melted into that of a wolf's. I saw his eyes as he changed. Gold-rimmed as always, pleading with me to get away as far as possible.

What else could I do?

I turned and ran, remembering the lesson on werewolves I had learned in DADA during my second year and what Pandora had taught James and me when we were both seven. I ran as swiftly as I could through the tunnels. Echoes rocked the tunnels as Remus, as a wolf, howled.

So many near misses in my life. I escaped so many disasters living on the streets, was nearly captured to be played to death for Death Eaters' amusement, almost drowned, could have been kept by Voldemort for more play, and all that seemed to come down to this — being a stringy munchy for an overgrown canine with humongous teeth, who was also my brother's best friend. The irony of the matter that I should escape so many enemies only to be finished off by an almost-friend was, quite literally, going to kill me.

What a way to begin my school year.

I pounded through the tunnels, my heart beating fast enough to leap out of my throat and run ahead of me. I quite clearly imagined the snapping teeth behind me and gold-rimmed eyes filled with bloodlust. I summoned even more speed than before, my headlong dash carrying me closer to the entrance.

Not too far behind, I heard another howl and claws scratching against stone.

Ahead of me, I saw the tunnel come to an end. Did the opening close automatically behind a person? How did one open it from within the tunnel? I crashed into the wall, fell to the ground, and leapt back to my feet. I frantically ran my hands over the wall, searching for any telltale latch. I heard a huff behind me, and slowly turned around to see a wolf standing little less than a hundred cubits from me.

I realized then that Sirius had meant to kill me.

How else can you explain such a thing happening? He told me to follow after Remus from the beginning, but _he did not tell me how to get out_. Did he mean for me to never come back? What was he thinking to involve Remus in such a situation? Yes, I may be killed, but it was Remus who was going to do the killing!

Why do I despise and hate your godfather?

It is more than just nearly getting me killed.

It has a lot to do with putting Remus in the situation to directly kill someone. In that, Sirius Black betrayed his friend in a way I never could to anyone else. Am I ever to be considered a monster, given that situation?

Truly I think not.


	10. An Odd Debt

_The later years of Hogwarts. Also: Not quite a near-death experience, but close enough._

* * *

James had, shortly before I followed after Remus, received a letter from Pandora of her decision to make a dangerous trip and that she wanted him and me at Dumbledore's office shortly after twilight so she could speak with us. He went looking for me, but as he could not find me anywhere he enlisted Lily's help. Lily crossed paths with Sirius and made inquiries. Sirius went to James, who told him they would have to let Remus fend for himself for once, and by the by, did Sirius know where Sev was? 

Was it the mention of Pandora coming or James saying they would not be seeing Remus that night? Whatever the reason, Sirius panicked and confessed to James. James immediately left the castle to the Whomping Willow, knowing full well that Pandora would be arriving in minutes. The full moon rose quite quickly during those early autumn days and James, knowing this, was far more keen of the consequences than Sirius seemed to be.

Remus, as a werewolf, heard James moments before I. He backed away from me with a whine, and then howled as a panel behind slid open and a hand jerked me out of the tunnel by my collar. Remus sprang forward and snarled at me. His teeth bit into my trouser leg and tore the material away along with a good chunk of my calf. The opening slammed shut behind us, leaving the werewolf barricaded safely away. Momentarily choked by the strangling hold on my collar, I did nothing as James hauled me against his body and transfigured. I found myself astride a stag as it sprang forward. A dozen swift strides later, and I fell from its back just short of the Whomping Willow's reach.

Riding a horse I have never done at all. Francis did, as I remember Pandora telling me how his parents visited ranching cousins in Australia. I fell off James' back (or Prongs' back; I always did wonder how he got that ridiculous nickname), hit the ground and rolled twice before sitting upright and glaring at the stag. In a blink of an eye, James, sheepish and worried, stood before me. Sirius and Peter came running out of the bushes and skidded to a halt behind James. All three of them looked at me, guilty as sin, awaiting my judgement. Anger swelled as I began to make connections with everything that I learned. When Remus as a werewolf howled, the anger broke through its dam.

I exploded. In my entire life before this point, I have never lost control of my temper on such a large scale of magnitude. I called James, Sirius, and Peter every single name I could think of — and allow me to say I have an extended vocabulary for insults — and made threats left and right. I swore how I would tell Pandora and Dumbledore and McGonagall all that happened. Expelled? I would certainly see to it that it would happen! James was an unregistered, illegally practicing animagus, which I would delight in telling the entire world! And Remus' condition was going to be all over the school before tomorrow arrived! I wanted to hurt them as I had been hurt, no quarters given.

Amidst these threats, James gestured Sirius and Peter away, explaining softly that he would handle the matter. They gave him worried glances, as if scared I would forget about letting Pandora punish James but instead kill him myself, then left. I did not like the idea that these two — the very two responsible for the whole matter — would go away and leave James alone to face my wrath.

I was enraged that James — noble, gentle, brash, and _stupidly carefree_ James — would take full responsibility for Sirius' transgressions. Yes, it was my fault for being curious, but if we were brothers, could I not then be trusted? True, I should have asked him in the beginning instead of Peter, but I cannot trust. It hurt to realize how far apart we were. I knew we would never be as close as he was with Sirius and Remus, or even that fat slob Peter, but… why? Whose fault was it? Was it my fault for my deeply ingrained distrust, or was it his fault for not trying hard enough?

Then I remembered, from that first time I met your father, the motion of his hand. The hand that touched me, that immediately wiped against his shirt.

_That_ was why we could never be close.

It did not matter if our mother was Pandora. It did not matter if we were brothers. It did not matter how much James tried to be a part of my life. We would never be close, were never _meant_ to be as close. A relationship between us would never succeed without trust, which I was too scared to give and he did not care to grant.

I must concede that James is not completely responsible – aside from Remus, he is the most innocent of all. Sirius knew full well how dangerous it would be for me to follow a person who would soon turn into a werewolf, one that was expecting company to chase. This was thoughtlessly careless and it was the same carelessness in thought and word James often showed everyone he did not go out of his way to be kind towards. In what way did James and Sirius influence one another? Through their own interaction with each other, their deeds reflected their friendship.

No, James did not come and rescue me when he got cold feet about his prank. He came to rescue me when _Sirius_ got cold feet. I meant to hurt you at that time when you said you knew your father saved my life, and the truth of your godfather would not hurt so much as a cutting lie of your father. I apologize, late as it is, for smearing the view you might have of your father, but I will not apologize for the pain I knowingly inflicted on you.

But the pain never goes away, Harry. As I remember the pain of betrayal, of selfishness, of knowing that your father didn't value me enough as a brother to trust me, it feels as fresh now as it did then. I want to fling away the memories, to gnaw myself free of them as a trapped animal gnaws itself free of from its steel-toothed trap. It's most agonizing as it is to relive these moments without the added burden of revealing such vulnerability to someone who is little more than a stranger. I will not even give you the credit of trying to imagine what it is that I feel.

"Why?" I raged against your father, pushing against his shoulders and bunching my fists because I wanted to strike him. "Why wasn't this entire mess simply cleaned up with Sirius telling me about Remus? Why did he send me after a boy who was going to turn into a hungry monster?"

"He didn't mean to," James replied, trying to placate me with a quiet voice and pleading eyes. "He only meant for you to see what we did." I would not be calmed.

"Why did he tell me to follow after Remus? How was that not meaning for me to get eaten?"

"He only meant it as a prank."

"A prank that would have had me dead and Remus a murderer!"

A flash of pain crossed his face at the mention of Remus. So, was it knowing Remus would be a murderer rather than knowing his own brother would be killed that caused James to react? Both, perhaps, but was he having trouble handling the one who stood before him without my having him remember the other? I lost more control. "_Have you no faith or trust for me?"_

I never should have spoken those words. He looked away, refusing to meet my gaze, and I knew then that _was_ the reason I was never entrusted. So many things made sense then; why James tried to remain so connected to me. It was because he was making a sparse attempt at cultivating trust, even if it was just to ease a bout of guilt from knowing he was closer to his friends than his brother. I, who would never purposefully betray him, could not be trusted.

I may not be able trust anyone, but _I_ could be trusted.

But no one understood such a difference.

"So be it," I said finally, reaching a state of rage that was so far past anger that it was an icy, cold calm. James looked surprised at the sudden change of my voice. I straightened to my full height, towering over him by a full head. "So be it." I turned away from him and began the walk back to Hogwarts Castle. Two steps and I realized a burning pain seared through my leg just as it buckled and nearly folded in half beneath my body. The pain travelled through my entire body like a bolt of lightening. My vision flooded red as I threw my hands out against a tree trunk to steady my balance. I heard James hiss behind me. His shrill words were filled with a panic I was only just then beginning to appreciate.

"You — you were bitten?!"

I forced my own panic away, scraping my fingers against the tree trunk as I pushed myself upright. "Leave off," I snarled as James reached out to steady my limping. I jerked my hand free of his grasp and he froze when he caught sight of my expression. "Haven't you done enough harm?" I asked. My voice broke in the middle of my sentence and I knew I was close to tears of pain — both emotional and physical.

"Damn it! Sev, why do you have to be so stubborn?"

"And _why_ can't _you_ grow up?" James looked startled at my shouting, almost as if I _had_ struck him. "When are you going to realize that pranks and mischief are foolish, childish habits that only hurt people? For years I was the butt and the punch line of Sirius' jokes, and when it goes too far — what could have killed me is going to turn me into a monster — all you can say is 'he didn't mean to.' Not meaning to does not excuse the fact that it happened! From the start — in Diagon Alley, in those days when I had no name, no family, no home, no hope, and rarely any food — you never gave me a single bloody chance… James, you are my _brother_. When did you treat me like a brother as much as you treated the others?"

I was crying then, and I wiped at the tears but they wouldn't stop. "You helped me, you cared for me, and you shared, but you never trusted. Now go – go tell Grandmother what has happened. Be a man and stand up for once." I turned my back to him, shuttered my mind against the shattered expression upon his own face, and set forth. I heard a whoosh and James, in his animagus form, dashed past me to Hogwarts.

My vision blurred from pain after a dozen steps and I forced my full concentration upon putting one foot before the other in the general direction of Hogwarts. A few dozen more, and I stumbled drunkenly forward, leaning against trees for long intervals to gain back flagging strength. After what was actually a short time, I saw James, human once again, running towards me. Close at his heels, one hand pressed against the top of her head to keep her straw hat in place, was Pandora, and right behind _her_ Pomfrey and Dumbledore.

James halted some paces before me but Pandora continued running headlong and she nearly crashed into me. She wrenched my face as she took it between both hands. She was terrified, even more so than when she and Voldemort had butted heads above the lake. "How long does it take for a bite to take effect?" Pandora asked the others. She knew though; her expertise lay in the Dark Arts and werewolves was a subject with much research.

"About a quarter of an hour," said Dumbledore. Both women turned a baleful eye at the full moon and Pandora cursed colourfully.

"Any cure?"

"None that I am aware of."

"Any way to halt the werewolf's magic when bitten?"

"None that I am aware of."

Pandora wrapped both arms around me, hugging me close to her breast and swaying. "I'm taking him to someone who may help," she whispered before Apparating away. Double-Apparating is dangerous and draining upon both persons. How much did it strain Pandora to make up for both of us so I would not lose all of my strength or be splinched? Had I any doubt before then that Pandora did not love me as truly as she loved her real flesh and blood, it was erased that night.

We Apparated to the front door of a dark manor — not dark as in appearance, but in feeling — and without hesitation, Pandora half-dragged, half-carried me across the threshold. I numbly noticed the masked figure that started toward us, wand rising in menacing threat. Pandora shoved past the figure. "I must see Riddle!" she snapped at the Death Eater. It hesitated for a moment and Pandora's voice rose in a shout. "RIDDLE! COME FORTH!"

She pulled me through a hall and I saw, at the very end, a familiar figure striding quickly towards us. Voldemort was dressed completely in black. His cloak fluttered behind him eerily like a pair of demon's wings; I must admit I admired the effect it had, even through the cloud of pain. Voldemort smiled with a touch of uncertainly when Pandora came within reach. She clutched me close, fighting back tears and trembles. Some distant part in my mind registered that Pandora had brought me directly to Voldemort — within his realm, his lair, even — just to help me. That she should know where he was to be found is not something I dare to contemplate.

"I need a favour."

Voldemort smiled. It was hideous. "Obviously," he said in a purring voice. His eyes flickered over to me, glanced up and down my form, and finally rested upon my leg.

"My _grandson_ was bitten by a werewolf by accident moments ago. _You_ know more about the Dark Arts than I do — is there a cure for it or a way to halt it before the magic of the full moon forces the magic of the werewolf's bite to manifest in response?"

Voldemort shrugged and spread his hands wide. "It will have to be burned away and very soon at that."

"How?"

"Through power." His eyes evaluated her, piercing and wicked, soulless and stunning. "Pure, undiluted, flowing power, and a great deal at that. Liquid magic strong enough to destroy the moon magic before it infuses with his nature."

Pandora was silent for a moment. One of her arms hugged me. "How much power?" she whispered.

"Much more than what you are capable of calling upon, even if you had not double-Apparated and took the full strain of it. Much more than you could gain at the cost of your own very soul were you to sell it."

"Can you do it?"

Voldemort smiled viciously. "I can, but it will cost a slight effort for me, and you know how I dislike doing anything that will give me little in return." He paused a moment, and then reached out to trace the line of her jaw. "What would you offer as payment?"

Precious seconds ticked away. An itch ran along the surface of my skin and the bones in my body began to ache, throbbing in time with the wound in my leg. Pandora turned her face from him and whimpered softly, before opening her eyes and staring straight at him. "It would appear I _can_ gain the power with the price of my soul," she said as irony twisted her voice. "Anything within reason."

"Your reason or mine?"

"So long as it harms no one but myself, I'll... I'll give you whatever you desire. _My_ soul, even."

A throaty laugh. "Such an interesting choice of words. What I desire from you couldn't give me, even for James' life. What I desire from you would change what you are, and then the desire would be naught and your value gone forever. So, suffice to say, I shall satisfy myself with your bed."

Eww.

I am quite sure I could write something infinitely cleverer and caustic regarding the very idea that Voldemort _lusted_ after _my_ _grandmother_, but to do so feels disrespectful towards Pandora. At that moment, pain-wracked and emotionally exhausted, I could only think of a single word, and even now it remains appropriate.

Eww.

I would much rather become a werewolf than let that monster become intimately involved with Pandora! Aside from the very thought of him _or_ her having sex… eww. I opened my mouth to protest, but all that emerged was a groan of pain, which Pandora smothered with the back of her hand.

"Done. But _I_ chose the time. When _I_ am ready, I shall come to you."

"Then it is agreed." Voldemort motioned her away. "Now step back." She did, releasing me. Without her strength, I fell to my knees and stared dimly at Voldemort's tarnished silver belt buckle. Two hands, cold and twisted, pressed against either side of my face, and that power Voldemort is so well known for leapt from him to me.

It was not a transfer of his power to me, but a flood of it that crashed into me and was drawn back in a continuous loop. It was a _rape_ of my essence, nature, spirit, and mind. I have never before or ever will again feel so utterly defiled as I did in that moment, or even as blessed and fortunate, for the power also made me feel beautiful and glorious. The power ripped through me, from one corner of my mind to the very end of my soul, flooding _everything_ that I was. It was foreign, overwhelming and formidable beyond any imagination capable of comprehending, and it filled me to the brim. It ruthlessly attacked the poisoning moon magic and consumed it, burning it to nothing. Voldemort's power was both sheer agony, and orgasmic pleasure. There is no possible way to fully describe the exquisiteness, the beauty, the magnitude, the pain, and the violation of that power.

In that moment, I understood something about Voldemort and what it was that he so ruthlessly sought. I could not describe it at the time, but only knew it by instinct. It was as if I had been shown a picture but I could not know the name of the object or the names of the colours and shapes with which was used to draw. Then his magic was cleaved away from me and I lost the vague understanding I had. I was left with only the impression that I knew something important.

But everything his power had inflicted upon me was so abruptly torn away that blood streamed from my eyes and ears. I grasped at his waist, hands flailing uselessly for a handhold of some sort, for just the littlest of support, and then I blacked out.

* * *

I dreamt of a little boy crying in the corner of a cold building. He was tired and sore, lonely, and abused. He hated with an intensity that I never attained for all the time I spent in the slums. But above that was fright: fright of another violent rape from older children and fright of rape from the adults in charge. 

I knew that pain. I knew that fear. In that, the child and myself were more intimate and far closer than James and I.

Yet there was more. There was fright of being beaten and blamed for the perverted desire others held, and fear of what he did when he lost control. Even at that small age, this child possessed an enormous power. It appealed to others as it called out to them and aroused them in unknown ways; so great was this power that it even called out to Muggles! This child vowed he would make such persons — such imperfect persons with horrid, glaring flaws — suffer as he had suffered and know fear as he had known it.

What was the meaning of this dream? Did what my knowing about Voldemort reveal itself into something I could interpret? Why did Voldemort ask Pandora, in payment, for her bed?

I had said before that Voldemort burned Dinsmore to the ground in rage and sorrow. Why rage and why sorrow, you might wonder? Because that child, a part of Voldemort he was never able to get rid of or distance himself from, needed to understand this pleasure that others stole so ruthlessly and so cruelly from him, leaving him only pain and disgust. He desired it through the only woman he perceived to ever come close to his equal in power and cunning; a woman whose magic called out to arouse him as his own power did to others.

Sorrow: he did not know love; couldn't understand it as anything but a weakness to be manipulated. But to Pandora he gave leeway no other soul was granted, for in Pandora he found something he desired and respected enough to bargain and even ask, but never steal. He saved my life twice and gave sanctuary to James, never fought Pandora face to face, would stop his terror when she went to him, told his Death Eaters to leave her be, and granted her the knowledge of where to find him.

When she betrayed him that night, he knew regret. He knew pain and disgust once more.

Rage: For he had been manipulated, his weakness used against him, by someone for whom he had genuine respect. Pandora gave up everything she had and more to destroy Voldemort and suffer his wrath. There are those who say she did so to create peace for the wizarding world, but I know she did it for James, Lily, and you, Harry; especially you, the most innocent of us all.

* * *

I awoke later in the Hogwarts infirmary. White curtains were drawn around my bed like shields against the world. I slowly sat upright and felt for my leg. There was scar tissue where the flesh had been torn away, but it no longer ached. I reached over and drew back the white curtains to see Poppy speaking softly to Frank. 

Why could Neville Longbottom not have taken after his father? Frank was so sincere in helping others, in trying to be friends with me no matter how distant I tried to make myself. Frank had a strength that would not bend to anyone — not me, not his mother — and yet he struggled to please and help everyone.

Frank glanced over, brightened immediately upon seeing that I was awake, and hurried over to my side. Without saying anything, he thrust a letter to me, which I stared at for a long time without a response. It was Pandora's seal, and that was merely that. I did not want to contemplate further.

Frank looked expectedly at me. My hands shook only slightly as I tore the seal and unfolded the paper. It was brief, simple, and painfully empty.

_Severus, I have gone seeking important information on the depths of Voldemort's power as well as the Dark Arts he used to change himself. Through this I may hope to find a way to stop him. I do not know how long I shall be gone; perhaps some years. I have arranged appropriate funds for both you and James. I know that what happened recently has hurt you deeply, and asking you to forgive James would be useless. Please though, even just for my sake, behave cordially towards him. Actions that reflect your resentment and pain, meant to hurt him as much as you have been hurt, will only drive the proverbial wedge further. No matter what has happened you are still brothers, and you both need one another. _

_ I am sorry for abandoning you in these most desperate times. Neither of you can tolerate abandonment, so that is why you must cling to one another. Do not perpetuate this, but hold fast and steady, for in each other you will find the support you crave. _

_ Love you dearly _

_ Pandora _

That was it. No mention of whether Sirius was punished, or what Pandora had done to rectify the matter of my nearly being killed, or James performing illegal magic. Not, of course, that I expected anything done from the woman whose knowledge of Dark Arts was not exactly limited by legalities. I did not know how to react, but there was a sense of lingering betrayal. I quietly folded the letter when I finished reading it, laid back onto my bed, and fell back to sleep.

After that, I began to methodically cut any bonds still existing between James and myself. After what happened, I believed I would never be able to trust as I once could have. For that it would do no good to remain close. I stopped all tutoring sessions, avoided James whenever he tried approaching me, or looked over his head or beyond his form when I could not avoid him. Lily asked me what happened, but I kept my silence. I ignored the others, though Frank, ever stubborn, still remained latched to me. I knew he would not be able to maintain the closeness after he graduated, so I tolerated it.

Remus tried to make peace, but he I avoided as well. Sirius I had little trouble with, as we seemed to agree the best thing to do, given the circumstances, was to pretend the other no longer existed.

The year, seemingly so much longer than any of the others, ended with only a few letters from Pandora. McGonagall accompanied us home. She stayed a few weeks at Dinsmore to show us how to financially run the property. James and I were cordial to one another whenever we were forced to speak, but once McGonagall left, weeks passed when we did not see one another. I did not seek out the family portraits, and when Severus and Oliver inquired after my absence, I coldly informed them that if they cared to know what happened, they could ask their beloved flesh and blood.

It hurt to cut those ties but I could no longer afford closeness. This is why, as a gutter rat, such bonds are not encouraged. Giving trust could kill a person, and so I suffered the consequences. If I cut the binds I had with James, I had to cut the binds with everything else. James came, part and parcel, with Pandora and the whole of Dinsmore. To leave one, I would have to leave all.

The sixth and seventh years at Hogwarts passed fairly quickly once I was used, once more, to being alone. To me, those years were blurs of lonely nights, boring classes, and time spent in avoiding the other Slytherins. Without the protection of the Gryffindors, their allies within Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, and Frank, it was open season for adopted gutter rats like myself. Even given the situation of my being a Slytherin, it was still not enough to protect me from ambushes, open mockery, and established superiority/pecking orders.

At the end of the seventh year, James and Sirius were accepted into the league of the Aurors, and were trained by Frank. They were joined with half a dozen other neighbourhood children Pandora had trained Defence Against Dark Arts to at an early age. I was content to stay home at Dinsmore for a while, awaiting Pandora's return. After all, someone had to manage the estates and the Snape investments of wealth while James was off to fight Voldemort, whose reign of terror had grown dramatically since Pandora's departure.

In my spare time, I took over Pandora's old job of introducing the idea of magic-born children to Muggle parents. With my dark appearance and aura of suspicion, my serious and honest behaviour, people were torn between believing me and not believing me. However, I am proud to say that, even given the circumstances, I was quite convincing. I learnt the best way to make a person listen is to command their absolute attention, be it through fear or admiration.

I much prefer fear. Admiration itself tends to lend itself… trust.

Other than that, I possessed far too much spare time, and so most of it was spent at Dinsmore, wrapped in some of my own research and studies. I liked anything I could experiment with, really. Transfiguration, charms, potions. Mostly potions.

I could tell Francis dearly wished to join in on my experiments and exchange theories and ideas, but I refused to speak with him. I imagine the family was hurt that I would no longer have it be apart of my life, but such was my decision and at least the family respected it.

Due to my solitary nature, few people came to visit. There was the random visit from Frank, who stubbornly came bearing sugary snacks and tales of his Auror adventures. He was the only one outside of family who refused to give up on me. James came by also, once or twice a week, usually with Lily or Sirius reluctantly following after. As I looked back on those days, I would have to say Lily and James getting married came as no surprise; we were making bets in fourth year on their wedding date

It _was_ quite a surprise to me that Lucius, of all people, would come calling on one bright May morning that found me tending Pandora's tiny herb garden. He came down the dirt path, his hat pulled down low over one eye and a cane swinging freely from one hand.

"Good day, cousin!" he called to me, standing to one side of the garden. I glared belligerently at him. I had never known him to be polite to me before and that he should call me cousin — something he had always refused to do before — had my street senses screaming danger. Beware, Harry, of any silver-tongued enemy who comes bearing gifts. These gifts tend to be booby-trapped for those too gullible or stupid to realize how untrustworthy the idea is and for what reason as well.

When I said nothing, Lucius scowled at me. "Have you no words for your cousin?" he asked.

"Pardon me my rudeness: get the hell off my property."

Lucius' expression darkened. "I bring some information for you and your brother about Aunt Pandora and I am told to get the hell of your property?" His eyebrows twitched. "If it's your property, does this mean Aunt Pandora is dead? Odd, I had always expected James to inherit." I went back to tilling the soil, doing my best to ignore his senselessness. "After all, you may have the Snape name, but you're still a dirty whoremonger's bastard that Aunt Pandora took in." There was a moment of silence. "Unless," he added brightly, "you were not taken in out of a moment of charity, but because Aunt Pandora has an exotic appetite for a young boy's flesh."

That earned him a clod of dirt to his pristine hair – I wish it were a boulder for such an insult against Pandora.

Lucius rocked from the blow, but surprisingly enough did not respond. Instead, he planted his hands on his hips and surveyed the property. "Not a bad place here," he said. "A tad small, but nothing shameful about it. I understand the cottage is magically enhanced to be larger inside than outside."

I snorted. That was not true; two floors of the cottage were apart of the underground complex that ran for many kilometres beneath the ground, across the land. Besides, he used to visit it during the holidays before Romono had become overly upset with James' and Sirius' pranks. "Of course," he added as an afterthought, "if Aunt Pandora did like young boys, I think she could find much better than vermin-laden disease-stricken bastard like you."

Two can play at that game. "You seem to be quite the expert on liking young boys," I said casually. "Could it be that you _are_ an expert on the subject?" Lucius scowled at me and I contrived to look innocent (not that this ever worked before in my life). "I wouldn't be surprised; it must be hard being a testosterone-pumped male unable to find a woman sufficiently lacking in eyesight and intelligence to spread her knees to you."

If there is anything admirable about Lucius, it is that he gained a marginal control over his temper. His eyes narrowed dangerously, then he smirked. He slipped his hand into one trouser pocket and withdrew a letter. He waved this triumphantly in the air. "After that," he said in a superior tone, "I don't think I should give you this." He tilted it enough for me to see Pandora's seal. "You may find it interesting."

I straightened upward and squinted at the letter. Lucius smiled wickedly at me and tucked it back into his pocket. "If you want it, you have to apologize for what you just said." He sniffed, wounded. "After all, that hurt."

"Alas," I said, "the truth always hurts, so I cannot apologize for that. However, I express my condolences towards any harm I may have inflicted upon your inflated ego. Not that it needed a few pricks just so your hat could fit comfortably, but that is utterly beside the point."

"Utterly," he agreed sourly. After a long moment, he removed the letter from his pocket and gingerly held it out to me. Starved for any word of Pandora — she had not written since Christmas — I snatched the letter from his hands and tore off the seal. I should have wondered why Pandora had sent a letter to Lucius instead of myself, though I squashed my suspicion with thinking that she had contacted Romono. Even then, I should have wondered why the seal was not broken.

Beware of enemies bearing gifts. The charm placed in the wax of the seal was strong enough to knock a horse cold off its shoes. I may not have been a horse, but it worked all the better for it.


	11. A Sacrifice For Knowledge

_In which Severus Snape sells his soul._

* * *

I became aware of my surroundings rather quickly. My first thought was to acknowledge the massive headache I currently suffered, my second thought was how my entire body felt restrained, my third was how this had to be James' fault in some way, and my fourth was how Pandora would hear of this from me both vividly and heatedly.

And then I realized the reason for my body feeling restrained was because of the body-binding charm someone had placed upon it. Remembering the last person I had seen, I came to the conclusion this was not James' fault, but was instead the malicious act of Lucius', no doubt revenge for the kick in the ribs so many years ago. Again, I swore Pandora was going to hear of this from me.

It was dark. I could open my eyes and swivel them around, but it was the only part of my entire body that moved. I was propped up against the wall with chains wrapped around my upper body and arms. Two figures dressed in black robes stood on either side of me, their sleeves pushed back to reveal a tattoo/burn of a black skull with a snake curling out of its mouth. My mind instantly flashed back to that time I had been snatched by a Death Eater and claimed as a plaything, so many years ago when I was still a gutter rat. I knew I would not escape by biting anyone's hand and be rescued by an elderly woman hidden beneath an invisible cloak.

I heard footsteps as people brushed past us in the dark. Their voices were fleeting whispers of hurried words, desperate to keep silent and not attract notice. After a long while, someone stepped up to us. His face was covered like as everyone else's and he wore black robes with silver threading, but I knew from his gait he was Lucius. He snapped his fingers at the Death Eaters standing on either side of me, then pointed at me with his wand. The body-binding spell fell away, but before I could react the two Death Eaters grabbed me by my shoulders.

Lucius walked away, and I was dragged behind. With each step, I remained silent though I had to wonder of my fate. Was I to be killed by Voldemort, leaving Pandora with but one grandson? I rejected that theory as quickly as it entered my mind; Pandora would not feel indebted to Voldemort for ridding me of a werewolf's curse if he killed me so soon.

Was I to be used in Lucius' own personal game? Now, I was hardly surprised with the idea of Lucius as a Death Eater. It suited him. He liked to torture people purely for the sake of seeing them suffer, and joining Voldemort was a good way to assure he would always have someone to torture in some way. I doubted Romono knew, for as arrogant as the man was he would not have allowed a family member to do anything Pandora would have disapproved, and being a Death Eater certainly qualified for disapproval.

I was dragged through dark corridors, past other masked Death Eaters, to a room lit by a single torch burning in an overhead ring. Seated in the very centre of the room where the shadows twisted and jumped eerily the most, in a large throne-like chair as if he was a king, was Voldemort.

He was no different from any other time I had seen him. He was still dark, twisted, unnatural, and brimming with unaccountable power; still a shadow of his former, handsome self before he sold his soul to the Darker Powers. Lucius stepped to the side of the chair and watched as I was shoved to my knees before Voldemort, close enough for me to lean forward and rest my chin upon his knees. Voldemort remained silent as he studied me with those piercing, empty eyes. I stared back, partially enthralled by the strange emptiness and partially enamoured with the terrifying effects the shadows seemed to cast over his features. In those moments, I felt as I was in the presence of a powerful demon.

When he spoke, my heart seemed to pound in time with the rhythm of his words. "What do I do with you?" he asked as he leaned forward slightly. "What _use_ have I for you? As Pandora's grandson, that would leave you with a great deal of leverage. However, that also makes you nearly inadequate." He swept his hand along my jaw line. "I could just kill you."

Numb as I was from his eyes, I answered without thinking. "You won't."

The hand on my jaw tightened suddenly, squeezing and pinching my flesh. Voldemort's eyes hardened. "Do not presume to tell me what I will or will not do. I did not grant _you_ sanctuary." I knew I had made a mistake. The look in his eyes said he _would_ kill me indeed, regardless of my relationship with Pandora, just to prove the point. "What should I do with him?" he asked Lucius.

Lucius smiled, wicked and perverse. "Play with him," he said. "Let him live with a shattered mind and body."

"Crude and useless," Voldemort replied with irritation. Lucius winced. "This one is marginally intelligent, which makes him dangerous. However, a knife that could cut our throat can just as easily cut the throat of those who oppose us." He was silent a moment. "Slytherin, despite your most questionable origins, but at least _you_ do not shame the glorious name you undeservedly received. Would you join me?"

I blinked, trying to understand the meaning of the words that floated through my numb mind. The dragging weight of my arms chained at my sides was strangely all that kept me from sinking into a thick pool of endlessness. I bit the inside of my cheek and tasted blood. The pain rushed the numbness away and Voldemort blinked. "Join you? Join _you_?" My gutter rat instincts screamed at me to appear as harmless and defenceless as possible, but my Snape pride, carefully cultivated through school and nurtured by Pandora, balked in revolt. "It would be safer to dance with a hydra!"

Voldemort chuckled. I frowned; I amused or enraged him with my words at every turn. I found this annoying in the least. "But you would be dancing with a snake if you join me."

"Why should I?"

"I could offer you anything you ever wanted." His eyes glittered finally, no longer empty and soulless as whatever dwelled past began to stir in desire. "I do not often give people a choice in joining me. They either do, or I kill them. But to you, my filthy gutter rat, I offer power, status, and importance. Purity, even. You became a Slytherin for a reason."

"Lack of trust," I responded automatically. Voldemort threw his head back and laughed.

"A notorious trait that, I assure you, son of Pandora's heart, so often goes without notice."

I gritted my teeth. "I could make my way into the world and gain everything you offer me. I don't _need_ your help."

He leaned back into his chair. "Oh, yes, you do. I can release your body, let that empty shell of filthy human flesh dwell still in _this_ world, but your mind will remain locked away, chained _forever_ at _my side_ and trapped like a soul damned to hell."

That did not frighten me so much as the sudden haunting memory of being told of James, the mindless puppet.

"Troublesome Aurors," Voldemort said almost to himself. "Always meddling and interfering." His eyes shifted to the side. "Who is that woman James Potter is always so protective of? Lorry?" A heartbeat passed; my blood pounded in my ears.

"Lily," I said softly.

"Of course." Voldemort looked back at me. The heavy oppression of the air, weighing down upon me, reeked of fear. His eyes unnerved me - the eyes that reached into the depths of a personality and revealed everything of a single aspect saw my fear, saw what I knew that went unsaid.

Why threaten _me_, the self-exiled brother, when James was so much closer to dear, sweet _Lily_?

He smirked. "James I will not harm," he said softly. "Not directly, of course, so long as Pandora remains outside the game, accepting the rules I've established. But… who knows the emotional harm I can inflict upon him through Lily's fate."

Not death, but fate. That left him with the possibility to keep Lily alive, and prolong what he could inflict upon her for years and years. What _could_ Voldemort inflict? I remembered the twins torn from limb to limb, Oliver sliced to ribbons, and Francis's body gone, drained of the blood left behind. And James – who had been with Voldemort for just two days.

James was a fierce Auror. There were those who would contribute such ferocity and success to being Pandora's grandson, but I knew, somewhere within his subconscious, was buried the memory of Voldemort's cruelty; that which James witnessed and suffered. It would not take much hurt James – only enough to cause regression. Voldemort could easily force James into the same position Pandora was forced to maintain. _Fight me, and your most precious person in the world will suffer the consequences. _

Beneath his piercing gaze, I felt my will to fight against this twisted man wither. For Lily, to keep safe the bright-eyed child who had built sand castles with me long ago… For James, so I would never know him as Pandora had: a blank, unresponsive puppet. Voldemort reached his hand out and touched my face. His fingers splayed across my cheek and the pad of his thumb rested lightly against my chin. "What will it be?" he asked softly. "What do you want most in the world that only _I_ can give you?"

As I looked upon him, his eyes reading my innermost thoughts, I was suddenly filled with a burning passion to help James destroy Voldemort. This was the man who ruined the lives of everyone, not just Pandora and James, but the entire European population of wizards and witches. Once the European division of magic fell, the rest of the world, both Muggle and magic, would follow suit. This man could destroy the world as we knew it and I was never truly aware of this until that very moment. The desperation the entire world must have touched my soul. Remembering my brother on his last visit as he grumbled about what he would give to know Voldemort's plans of actions I thought to myself, _Would you accept the price I pay? _

It was time to use one another yet again, as we had as children for Pandora.

"For knowledge," I said. "For knowledge, I would become one of yours."

Those eyes saw my true intent. Knowledge for _Voldemort's_ actions, not knowledge of the Dark Arts, as Lucius thought and others would think in my lifetime. Knowledge _I_ would give James.

Voldemort smirked, amused and delighted. It was…frightful. He leaned forward until his lips were almost brushing my ear. "For knowledge," he whispered as his hand clamped upon my lower arm, "I could make you mine, though you will never truly yield." His other arm circled around my shoulders and drew me closer. The chains that bound me snapped open and fell to the floor. "You yield to no one but Pandora Potter, and even then it is most grudgingly _and_ only after you have kicked and screamed yourself into exhaustion. And for that, I will take you and break you."

That was when he imprinted the Dark Mark upon my arm. His eyes glowed red as his power flooded my entire being, searing me with its essence. It was both glorious and repulsive. He did not draw the power back though, as he did when he burned away the moon magic. It pooled within my mind and my arm where his hand gripped me, spilling over and sizzling as bright green sparks. It was a magic that would ensure a connection with him, as it ensured a connection with everyone to him; one that gave him the ability to summon us from anywhere in the world, or to alert us to his call. It also lent strength to perform the Forbidden Curses to those Death Eaters who were otherwise too weak.

His magic burned my mind and the mark into my arm, assuring that I was more his than anyone else's. The magic made my blood boil, as if purifying every taint it carried, making me one with him.

Even now, with the Dark Mark burning as he calls me and I write this, recalling memories that I would rather keep buried six feet under, I feel as if there is something about Voldemort that only I know. Perhaps all Death Eaters feel this. Perhaps it is only my imagination.

I did not black out from the flood of power, but instead collapsed forward with the upper part of my body strewn across Voldemort's knees in some grotesque fashion, my forehead pressed against his torso. Hands swept gently through my hair after he finished. Somewhere in my mind, I made a mental note to take a long, soapy bath after all of this being touched. Foolish notion, really. As much as I would later scrub and scrub until the bathwater turned bloody, I would never rid myself of this contamination.

I floated amidst a swirl of agony and delight as my body adjusted to the invasive foreign power. I wondered if James was really worth this, but squashed that idea. I was doing this for myself as well. I had too many horrid memories as it was without _James_ adding to them.

I distantly heard Voldemort speak. As he did, the foreign magic flowing through my veins tugged and came alive in response. Were it an animal, it would have rolled onto its back and barred its belly to him. "It is not often someone brings me such a gift, Malfoy," Voldemort said. "I shall remember this."

Lucius hissed with pleasure. "Is it a good gift?"

"Oh yes." The hand paused a moment in its sweeping. "It is a good gift."

I would remember Lucius and create my own revenge against the man. He will fall one of these days. When he does fall, Draco will turn his back to him. The very boy, whom Lucius pooled his resources, time, and effort to become his greatest creation, will be thankless. And _therein_ lies my instrument of revenge. How Lucius' pride will be shattered that he is betrayed. I relish the thought, but I will not be present to witness my work.

The hand resumed its petting. "Few understand how valuable this gutter rat is to Pandora. Because I understand the value, I feel a satisfaction in knowing the soul she stole away from me returns once more."

_ I will destroy you,_ I thought dimly. _In some way, some how, I will tear you apart piece by little piece, until you realize what is happening but it's too late to do stop me._ Voldemort stood up and gently pulled me to my feet. I leaned against him, dizzy and nauseous. He held me close, as if understanding my discomfort and consoled me for it.

"Come," he said kindly as he led me down the hall. Lucius fell into step behind us. "There is a Death Eater meeting tonight with plans to discuss, torture methods to approve, rewards to grant, and punishments to wrought. We will have to dress you in your new uniform. I doubt we shall find anything for such a tall frame, so you may have to make due with barring your ankles until we brainwash a decent seamstress. And you really should eat more; for all that Snape wealth, surely they can afford a better-stocked larder…"

Voldemort is a strange villain for all of his atrocious monstrosities. People — those who did not join Voldemort's side — who remember his last reign of terror would tell you what a cruel, horrible man he is, that his sign was a dreaded sight that meant death and suffering. But Voldemort is no fool. Everything he does is weighted with consideration. He knows there has to be a balance struck; just enough fear to either have people too scared to fight or scared enough to seek his favour, enough to keep them divided from one another, for then he could conquer.

Voldemort never forgets anything. That man has a mind that retains every single detail of everything he has ever experienced. Everything that ever happened to him, from a simple breeze to a single blink of an eye, he could recall the exact place at the exact time in an instant. When people do things, he remembers, and he always pays his due. That is why he had so many followers and still does. Yes, he was cruel; yes, he was vindictive; yes, he inspired fear and terror in others on purpose with his horrid acts. Yet for those who joined his cause, he was the most charming, most generous person in the world. He was elegant and friendly; he had a good sense of humour and encouraged bantering when he felt that it would not undermine his relationship as master/slave with the rest of the Death Eaters.

Alas, I believe his various brushes with death (no thanks to you) have ruined his sense of humour.

Know thy enemy; such wise words. When one knows one's enemy, one understands that enemy's motives. Motivation is a great weak point, because once one realizes that motivation — should it be very specific— one can find something to destroy that motivation and leave the enemy, proverbially, "up the creek without a paddle."

But what was Voldemort's motivation?

One day, prowling through the dark halls of the Riddle mansion with that snake of his slithering behind, Voldemort spoke to me. While it was true he spoke to many, there were few that he ever had a casual, one-to-one conversation with about anything besides his plans of dominating the world. "Look at them," he said to me as we paused at one of the mansion's patios that overlooked the distant village. "Muggles are such destructive creatures. If you learn their history, you realize they destroy everything they possibly come across. They have more weapons as inventions than anything else that exists. And if it not meant to be a weapon, it is easily modified into one. Why is that?"

I did not answer. That he had beckoned me to wander with him through these halls, which had not known light other than sunshine for so many years, puzzled me. I deemed it wisest to remain silent. After a moment, he turned from the window and resumed his restless wandering. "Such inadequacy," he said. "They are never truly satisfied. They build greater and larger and more powerful objects. Certain special interest parties cry and whine about how the world's natural resources are being depleted; they pound their breasts and cry foul when they receive the very same behaviour they give others. People preach of love and charity and how their god created everyone equal, yet in the same breath will condemn their fellow man for following a different religion or choosing a different lifestyle."

He drew his lips back in a sneer. "Such pathetic, two-faced, hypocritical bastards, the whole lot of them. They coat their poisoned words with sugar and expect people to choke them down." He snorted. "Death is the cure for a malady such as theirs." Silence hovered upon our conversation then. After a while, Voldemort's snake grew bored and slipped off into the shadows, no doubt to feast upon the mice and rats that bred abundantly within the manor's walls.

"What was it like on the streets?" Voldemort asked suddenly.

"My lord?"

"You know I hate repeating myself. What was it like living on the streets? The Muggles, what sorts of persons were they like?"

"Horrid. If you ever wish to see the true wickedness of mankind, live on the streets. It will destroy any remaining faith you have in mankind. The slums, at least, do not coat the truth. It betrays and it deceives, but you know its limits – it's a deception that doesn't lie about itself."

"There was an age," Voldemort began slowly, "where the overall population of people believed mankind was inherently good. That thinking," he added disdainfully, "was destroyed when mankind decided to modernize itself." Another long silence followed, leaving me with a sense of boredom. It was supposedly an honour to accompany him. But I found it maddening to roam those dark halls, dancing the knife's edge between the monotony of silence and the adrenaline of careful speech.

"People are desperate in the slums," I said. "They look out only for themselves. You don't trust your comrades; you don't trust your leaders. They'd sell each other out for a moment's respite. There is no hope. The people who live there are trapped. It's the only world they know and understand, and everything else is too foreign. The concept of kindness, even if they had heard the word — which I doubt, the people have very limited vocabularies beyond insults — escapes them daily. Nothing is done without the intention to further their own ends."

"Then they, too, are better off dead."

I shrugged. "Why not? The upper classes ignore the slums people. They blame us for our fate and say it is our fault we are trapped in the slums, as if we choose to stay there. They do not understand it is all we have, all we know, and how incapable we are in coping with the real world because of the unaccustomed kindness. We have lived a life not trusting, and it cannot be gained by pretty words or flashy deeds. We cannot understand the meaning of simple charity. If those of the upper classes were forced into living what we have lived, they would abandon us in their own attempt to escape. What difference would it make to be dead?"

He glanced sideways at me. I realized I had been referring to myself as one of the slums people. It is easy, too easy, to slip back into that mindset – even now, after the distance of nearly three decades. "Would you say that is common amongst Muggles?" he asked with a slow-spreading smile.

I think I was backed into a corner. "I would say it is common to anyone or anything whose survival instincts are larger than their maternal instincts. Without the need to protect, trust never forms."

He grinned. "And you? Do you trust me though I do not protect you?"

I contemplated that, and when he regarded me with a curious amusement I decided I would lose nothing in telling him the truth, rather than mindless praise of his virtues – such as they were. "To a point." He cocked his head to the side. "You have no one to sell me out to, so I know you will not betray me."

"And if I wanted to destroy you?"

I was more careful with my reply this time. "I believe my lord would not do so without a good reason."

He smiled and shook a finger at me before resuming his wandering. "I would not be so wasteful, Severus," he said. "Waste is deplorable. That you are Pandora's son assures that you will be used with only a proper purpose in mind, and I will not let it be said I shamed her father's name. But Muggles have no use or purpose. They only know destruction, for everything must give way before their onslaught of productivity. They are like a disease that will destroy us all. They wish to populate the stars; will they move onward after first destroying this world? They either care to preserve what they have and sacrifice the future for that, or they care to create the future and sacrifice history in return."

"Wizards do the same," I said softly.

The nature of his smile changed and I knew I was then treading upon very dangerous, very thin ice. "Yes. Wizards do the same, but not all. Do you think I am like a disease?"

"I cannot say."

He stopped and turned to face me directly; I respectfully dropped my eyes to his feet. "You cannot… Or will not?"

"Wizards are destructive forces, in and of themselves. We are capable of great destruction and, often, we do employ such force. Yet we have never been known to decimate entire countries, such as Japan or Germany in the war, through sheer massive destruction that destroys the land as well as the population."

Voldemort snorted. "Ah yes, Germany." He hissed softly as he remembered an unpleasant memory. "More people died after the war in that country than those who died fighting in the war, because the Muggles deemed their being left to pick up the pieces, not caring for the destruction wrought upon the land, a suitable punishment for being Hitler's home. I can remember visiting the land after leaving Dinsmore and seeing the scattered, rotting corpses. The wizarding world was no better; the wizards and witches were left there to die only because they spoke the same language as Grindelwald." He sighed, and then said almost too softly for my hearing, "I will not be the same."

"If you wish to purge the world of its evil, you're a fine example of what to get rid of," I grumbled.

He laughed at that, his mood strangely becoming lighter. "Oh, Severus," he declared as he threw a friendly arm around my shoulders. "You are refreshingly not like the others! While they grovel and plead for attention, I may always count on your honesty. It may be because you can never yield yourself completely, so you hasten to compensate by giving your unbridled opinion." He shoved me away and strode ahead with a little skip in his steps. "True, I make a good example. But the best way to expose corruption for what it truly exists as is by reflecting it in such a way that it forces people to think."

Voldemort confuses me, Harry; he really and truly does. This is the man who destroys the wizarding world, piece by piece, so he can rebuild it in his own image, like a god. This is the man who burns with the desire to harness power and gather together all the knowledge of the world. This is the man who wants his name to be known and feared throughout the entire world — both Muggle and magic.

And, yet, this is the man who wants to purify the world of all the vermin and disease that was wrecking it, slowly but surely. This was the man who genuinely wants to save us from destroying ourselves.

Or it may just be the most elaborate smokescreen in the history of mankind.

Regardless, he is, without a doubt, the most cunning man I have ever known.

Do you understand the difference between brilliance and cunning, Harry? Francis, brilliant genius he was, asked the _how_ of things. Pandora, cunning, asked the _why_ of things. Combine the how with the why and Voldemort would have been brought to his heels when the questions were answered. In those years she was gone, Pandora decided it was time to start thinking like the duo that would have threatened Voldemort from the start had Francis lived.

She knew the why; she just had to seek the how. I still do not know the how of Voldemort's undeterminable power, but Pandora decided it was the only way to stop him. To destroy a power, the source of it had to be cut off, since motivation wouldn't work here.

It is hard to destroy the motivation of a man who has mixed agendas, some greedy and some good. The next best way to bring about an enemy's ends is to destroy that enemy's foundation, little by little, until everything collapses and he possesses no capability in which to repair the damage. This was my original goal when I became a Death Eater. For knowledge I bowed my head and became Voldemort's.

But how could I get James to understand this? James was not stupid. He may not have possessed Francis' brilliance, Pandora's sharp cunning, or Oliver's ponderous thoughtfulness, but he _was_ shrewd. In him flowed the blood of the Snapes, and somewhere the genius of Francis Potter.

For several months he paid his once or twice weekly visits and I did not approach him. We spent most of our time with my staring at him like he was an idiot while he prattled on about nothing in particular. I measured his reactions and emotions when he replayed his memories of fighting against Death Eaters.

James was noble. He would not care for me being a spy. He would think that cheap, dirty, underhanded, and sneaky. It balked with his honourable Gryffindor nature; the nature that demanded fights to be direct and open, and it was to this nature I would then have to appeal. I could only be direct with my brother.

One evening, alone without his usual companions, after a rather particular long ranting fest about how he would personally tear Voldemort apart with his bare hands and relish the moment, I handed James a large mug of hot chocolate, sat down across the table from him, and sipped my own. He looked at me suspiciously. I had not shared a mug of hot chocolate with him since our third year at Hogwarts. It had been a ritual of ours when I had something serious to discuss with him (usually it had been about Pandora's letters, Sirius' pranks, a student I would refuse to tutor thereafter, Sirius in general, and Lucius' rumours).

"What is it?" he asked after a long moment of silence. I shoved my hot chocolate away and crossed my arms before myself.

"This is not going to be easy to say," I began. He sat upright, eyes wide with fear.

"Is it about Grandmother? Have you received bad news from her?"

I shook my head. "No." He visibly relaxed and I fixed him with a dark gaze. "But she would be disappointed in me."

The eyes narrowed suspiciously again. I almost decided against telling him, so frightened was I with the uncertainty of his reactions. "Severus Snape, what did you do?"

I leaned forward. "Don't talk to me like you're Grandmother. James, I have never asked much from you. I ask now that you hear everything I have to say, without interruption, and without judgment, until I say I have nothing more to say in my defence and reasoning. Please." He covered his face with his hands.

"Oh god, where did you bury the body?"

"I'm not – I didn't – James! This is damned hard enough as it is without your stupid jokes!"

He didn't smile. "I wasn't joking."

"Just – wait, please, or I'll lose my nerve and then we're both in trouble. Please. I know that Grandmother tried to get us to be good brothers, but it never quite worked. I never had the faith capable of asking you to trust me. It would never work for that. Now I am asking for your trust, and believe me, it is much harder to speak to you than it was committing my crime. Hear me out, please, before I begin to babble incoherently."

He dropped his hands and stared at me with a shattered expression. I wondered briefly how much worse it would be after I explained. "For you," he said hoarsely. "For the ties that make us family, for Grandmother, and for the sake of our being together makes us strong whereas our being separated makes us weak. As long as you don't expect me to help you bury the damn body."

I smiled weakly at him. "There's no body. No interruptions?"

He nodded. "No interruptions."

I sighed; steeled myself for the uncharacteristic directness that made the gutter rat within cringe and whimper. "It all starts with this." I shoved my sleeve back and showed him the Dark Mark. At the sight of Voldemort's sign, James leapt to his feet, his hand flailing for a wand he was (thankfully) currently not carrying. He froze as he heard his chair clatter to the kitchen floor. Moving stiffly, he righted the chair, and then took a deep breath.

"I'm going to need something a bit stronger than hot chocolate," he said with a forced calm, refusing to meet my eyes. "Where does Grandmother keep her vodka?"


	12. James' Trust And My Betrayal

_In which Severus Snape's soul bounces like a bad check._

* * *

Having received a boost from the alcohol, James sat down before me once more. He cradled a strong drink closely. He smiled bravely and gestured for me to continue my explanation. I cannot describe how wonderful that single moment was, that he should have the strength to give me trust and patience even after so many harrowing battles with others who bore Voldemort's mark upon their arms.

"We all have choices," I began, "and I always tried to think carefully of the consequences of the choices I made." James nodded in acknowledgement. "I suppose you could say that Lucius left me with little choice, however." He frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but I waved him quiet. "I will have you know I did not deliberately seek out Voldemort. However, as Pandora Potter's grandson, Lucius believed Voldemort would be pleased if I were presented to him like a gift. So he made up a letter from Grandmother, and I stupidly opened it. There was a charm in the seal that knocked me out and Lucius whisked me away to Voldemort."

James remained still, his eyes downcast and his hands clenched tightly around the glass.

"Voldemort gave me a choice: death or join him and receive anything I want." I waited to see if James would comment, but he was still. "I decided death just wouldn't suit me, even though I've decided I'm going to haunt someone after I die. Share the misery and all that. With my luck being what it was at the moment though, I would die and not get to haunt Lucius." I leaned forward and plucked James' drink out of his hands. "When I looked into Voldemort's eyes, I knew I had to fight him; I understood then Grandmother's desperation to understand the depths of that — that monster's power. But what good would I be dead? I would not be the first person he would have killed, and no one else haunts _him_."

I took a sip of the vodka and then handed the drink back. It burned and slithered down to the depths of my stomach. "So I said I would join him for knowledge." I held a finger up quickly as James moved to speak. "Knowledge of his actions. Knowledge that could be passed to the Aurors, who could use it to their advantage in the struggle to defeat him."

James' eyebrows twitched. Not knowing if that was a good sign or not, I plunged headlong into my explanation, voice rising to discourage interruptions. "I would be a spy for you, James. I could give you the information you need, and if anyone asks where you got it, just tell them you have a spy, but don't mention my name. It must be a secret between the two of us. Dumbledore can't know, Lily can't know, Sirius can't know; don't even let Grandmother know. The less people who know of what I am, the less chance there will be of Voldemort finding himself in a position where he has to kill me."

I started at him hopefully but he turned his eyes away from me, slowly sipping on his vodka. I scrubbed my face with a hand. "James?" I said in a low voice. "Please, don't let my choice be in vain."

He slammed the glass on the table hard. It made me jump in surprise, and James laughed, full of bitterness. "It never ceases to amaze me how Voldemort destroys our family so easily time and time again." He stood and began to restlessly pace the kitchen floor. "How can you be so calm about this entire thing? That mark," he gestured violently at my arm and I pulled the sleeve over it to hide it from his view, "is a death warrant. There are those who will kill you first then ask questions later about why you were with Voldemort. I don't _want_ to use you as a spy. It places you into too much of a risk with people doing just that."

I rubbed the Dark Mark. "It wasn't much a family when I became part of it," I muttered. James' countenance darkened, and I didn't want him to feel offended – it was _my_ family, too. "What would or could be destroyed was done so before I was adopted." How utterly wrong I was. In those days, there was the matron of the Potter family and her grandsons. We had the family cottage and all those marvellous portraits. Now there is only the wealth stored in vaults, you, and I.

We are a dismal lot at best. I hate to write it, Harry, but between you and I, the Potter family is getting nowhere fast.

But I suppose that is just as well, since doing otherwise would require one or both of us to _breed_.

James carried his glass over to Pandora's liquor cupboard and mixed another drink. He remained silent as he did so. When he finally returned and settled in his seat, he cleared his voice and spoke softly. There was a tremble in his hands, and colour had leached from his face. He looked to be suffering physical pain of some sort, though I could not tell you why. "If I use you as a spy, I would be no more different than Lucius. He used you to gain the favour of Voldemort, just as I would be using you to gain the favour of, well, I'd be using you."

"It's my idea."

"I don't like it. If Voldemort learns you're a spy, being Grandmother's grandson isn't going to save you. If the Aurors discover you as a Death Eater, being my brother will not save you. Either way, you're trapped."

"And how many will die in the future?" I asked suddenly, not wanting to think of how Voldemort _did_ know of my intentions. "Right now, the Aurors are blind. You fumble in the dark, striking wildly at anything that moves. Voldemort has the advantage at the moment because he is a creature of the dark that knows exactly what is going on. How much could you change the odds if I feed you information? I could be the light in the darkness that would show you people where to go."

"I don't like using you. What if you give us false information accidentally? How will both of us feel then? What if we let something slip and Voldemort finds out? There are too many unknown factors here."

"Your biggest problem is that you don't want to use me."

He shook his head. "Yes."

My signals were getting mixed and I was beginning to feel disgusted with him. "_Why_?"

"Because it's wrong! It'll be just like the way Voldemort uses people. We don't have to stoop to their petty level. We're better than them."

We glared defiantly at one another. I shifted in my seat. "Remember how we met Lily?" I asked.

"If you change the subject, I'm going to decide this conversation is closed and will not allow it to be brought up again."

"I'm trying to make a point, you dolt, now let me finish. When Grandmother told parents that their children were capable of magic and that yes, magic did exist, she first learned how acceptable the idea itself was for the parents by watching us manipulate one another into getting the child's reaction to it. In this, we do nothing dif—"

"This _is_ different!" James leapt to his feet and I leaned back, lest he jumped across the table and began to shake me. "This is not a game for us! There are too many lives and too many consequences now. We cannot afford to risk lives for a little bit of knowledge. I won't risk _you._ Grandmother would have my head if—"

"And it is too late now!" I jumped to my own feet and glared down at him, mentally daring him to so much as lay a single finger upon my person. "I am already a Death Eater. I have sat in on plans, made suggestions, and tomorrow, I lead an attack against the Muggle Slums of London. How do I back out of this situation? I _can't_. Where do I run that Voldemort will not eventually find me?" I stopped; I had begun shouting, but that would only make adrenaline pump faster and then neither of us would be fit to listen. "It was my life or Lily's."

That got his attention. His legs folded beneath him in shock and he dropped listlessly in to his chair. Moisture began to glisten at the corner of his eyes. "And now that it is _my_ life, that will be forfeit should I turn my back on Voldemort," I said softly, sitting down as well. "If you refuse to take advantage of the choice I made, then it's useless. My life will be worth _nothing_." I leaned forward until our noses nearly bumped, forcing his eyes to meet my own. "Are you so bent on doing what is honourable that, when I try to leave Voldemort otherwise, I will be played with? Do you want that instead? I would rather be used as a tool that could stop him than a plaything for his amusement!"

The old mask of pain I was used to seeing in your father's eyes when I knew he was thinking of that time he had spent alone with Voldemort appeared. He looked shattered and defeated at that moment, and I damned Voldemort thrice over for the price of the victory I wrought from my brother. "Fine," James said hoarsely. "So be my spy."

He fled then and I knew he had gone to Pandora's room, seeking sanctuary that can never exist so long as Voldemort does.

And so it was we were once more manipulating one another, leading each other in circles, using one another for cues, placing each other in the situations required of us.

I waited and watched in those meetings Voldemort had me attend. I passed my acquired information to James, who set traps and ambushes. Voldemort knew what I did, and seemed rather amused by the trouble and danger James and I created. He said he had not had a decent challenge since Pandora left and it was only fitting that her two grandsons should take up her mantle.

Knowing one of his own betrayed him was more of a game than anything else, and Voldemort did so love his games. He used the traps and ambushes for his own experiences, somehow garnering more than I did. He warned me though; one wrong slip that alerted the other Death Eaters to my true nature, and he would punish me as cruelly as he would punish any other traitor. More so, indeed, because I was special in that way.

I would be hard-put to amuse him after he finished wringing what humanity I had left, and he did just that, little by little. It started with a few suggestions and contributions to his plans, elevated to making dark potions for him — not potions that killed, but potions that caused excruciating pain or blackouts or numbed the victim's mind until they were as obedient as if cast with the Imperius Curse — and then I took human lives.

I never killed anyone, Harry. At least, that is not how _I_ view my actions. I _sacrificed lives._ It was better than two or three people died by my hand rather than allow the whole world to be destroyed. Better they died quick and painlessly, rather than become puppets for the Death Eaters' play. I feel myself justified.

Each time I looked directly into Voldemort's eyes and saw the emptiness within them, saw the burning need to dominate, I know those who died would be the lucky ones should Voldemort succeed. Either way, I did these people a favour. Yes, my hands are stained with blood, and I shall not I deny I am a murderer. But the only person I killed was myself, for each time I sacrificed a life to destroy the most powerful magic-user the wizarding world knew then a piece of my soul blackened and turned to ash. Pandora's work to soften me, to lead me to a life worth living, was slowly dismantled and strewn to the winds of Fate.

It was bad enough, I told Voldemort, that I had to help him make plans to kill people, but I did not want to see the eyes of those I killed. I would lead attacks though, directing from the background away from the fighting between the Death Eaters, their target, and alerted Aurors. I had to stand before people and take their lives, rather than let them live and be used for Death Eaters' amusement. Voldemort merely snickered and told me to get back to brewing my potions.

A year passed. Lily and James were married. I did not attend the wedding; I spent all that evening distracting Voldemort who wanted to crash the wedding reception with two-dozen Death Eaters and a box of dung bombs. Voldemort slipped a snake-in-a-box contraption/toy past me though. James told me a snake flew out of it into his face with a shower of sparks when he had lifted the lid of what he thought was a wedding present. He wanted to know if it was my idea to attach Tom Riddle's name to it, but I claimed ignorance.

Another year followed that. Within that year, James and I only received one letter from Pandora. She never answered our own, no matter how frantic we wrote; she would not be rushed by anyone, and time was of the essence.

_ My dearest boys _

_ I trust you two are staying out of trouble and are marginally getting along. At least my letters are not bloodstained and for that I am grateful. Tracing the footsteps of a man who passed through almost three decades ago has been difficult, to say the least. The Dark Arts of Africa and the Middle East are extremely, well, dark. These arts are truly powerful and truly terrifying as I have never known them, and if those Dark Wizards of the past in these countries had become as skilled and adept in using these spells as Tom Riddle, the magic world would have fallen thousands of years ago. _

_ Little by little though, I am beginning to understand the true magnitude of Riddle's powers. That he has a reservoir of such magic within him to use these arts is mind-boggling at the most. Immortality, necromancy, summoning; he learned Dark Arts so forbidden and so closely guarded by the natives that I spend more time trying to stay alive than researching. _

_ Make no mistake, my darlings, I do a great deal of research. _

_ I find that Riddle's strength and power are like layers. Layers of enhancement and layers of control, all wrapped around a single core that masters and feeds them all. These layers are what will have to be destroyed. I loathe doing it, for I fear that even at my height when youth and power had peaked together, I am not strong enough. But it is either Professor Dumbledore or I, and only I may get close enough to Riddle to do what will be needed. _

_ So James and Lily finally married, did they? I won the betting pool! I won the betting pool! I would like my half of the winnings deposited within my account, thank you very much. ) And a baby boy too! My gods, the merrily wed couple has been very busy indeed! I shall gloat and spoil baby Harry as is my right when I return home. _

_ Aside from embarrassing James, I have to say I am doing well and am continuously drawing closer to a plan for stripping the power from Tom Riddle. I will not permanently rid him of his power — within him lies too much for me to, for anyone really — but I can get rid of the enhancements and controls and the power clinging to _that_. Every little bit will help in the long run. Unfortunately, I must stay where I am and formulate my plan with materials I can snatch without notice from the natives. _

_ Until I come home again, you two keep well, remain out of trouble, and get along. _

_ Love now and always _

_Pandora _

I should mention here that you were born on your parents' wedding anniversary. Actually, there were many babies born that year, you being just one of them. Ron Weasley, your cousin Draco, Neville, and you were all born bang, bang, bang, right after one another, just in that order. Neville came as no surprise, as Frank popped up every week to babble of how his dear Alice was doing. When Neville was born, Frank got drunk and came over to Dinsmore to offer us cigars and nearly burned the house down when he attempted to light them with his wand. James and I laughed our arses off at his ineptness and it was Lily, belly swollen with you, who tossed him out on his ear.

I believe this exertion caused Lily to go into early labour, as you were born the day after Neville.

I would like to say that Lucius made a silly arse of himself as well, but it was Romono who appeared to give us a bottle of Muggle wine to announce the birth of his grandson. He beamed, proud and boastful, and told us everything he could about Draco while we pretended to send off a letter to Pandora to announce the news.

Shortly after the birth of his son, Lucius dramatically reduced his activities with the Death Eaters. He began to work, slowly but surely, to ensure Draco would receive an unusual amount of power and wealth when he eventually inherits. I was there when Lucius brought Draco to Voldemort for approval. I knelt in the far off corner of the room and watched the comings and goings, listening to the news Death Eaters brought Voldemort. Lucius swept into the room, wearing his Death Eater uniform and carrying a small, squirming bundle in his arms. He presented the bundle to Voldemort as if offering him the world.

Voldemort gently pulled the blanket back. From my viewpoint, all I could see was wrinkled pink flesh and a tuft of white-blond hair. Lucius swelled with paternal pride as Voldemort cradled the child and rubbed various body parts with a single finger, coaxing giggles and grins from Draco.

How do all cute little babies grow up to be obnoxious teenagers? Strike that – how can anyone even think these squalling, demanding, selfish little human beings are even _cute_?

I remember thinking I would never subject to any woman the pains of pregnancy upon witnessing Lily mope around Dinsmore where she and James had been living since they married. She usually had her swollen ankles propped up on one piece of furniture as she slumped over another, reading various "How To Raise Your Baby" books, which James would trip over in the middle of the night on his way to the loo.

You were born at late in the morning, after many hours of hard delivery. I can remember standing beside Lily's bed as James handed you to her and kissed her on the cheek, softly saying, "Happy Anniversary."

Tired, ragged, and grumpy from undergoing labour, Lily proceeded to strangle James for the most gruesome hours thus far of her life. She screeched the entire time on how she hated him, this was his fault, and she wanted a box of chocolate for her anniversary gift, not cramps and birthing pains. I had stayed home to help the birthing the best I could and missed a Death Eater meeting in the process.

Because I was helping you — with your usual bungling timing; I should have known it was a sign of things to be — make your grand entrance into this world, I did not learn that Frank and Alice Longbottom had been targeted for a "warning". In my innocent bliss, I Apparated to their cottage to give them the news (and to repay Frank for almost burning down Dinsmore in his state of intoxication) and almost directly landed inside a party of half a dozen Death Eaters. Naturally, I hid.

They did not see me when they departed. Voldemort's death sign hung over the house, ominous and gruesome. I stared at it in shock before realizing that Neville was screaming himself livid inside the house.

Fearing what lay within, I reluctantly approached and entered the house. I saw neither Frank nor Alice, and I traced the wailing to Neville's overturned crib. His face was blotchy and purple from his wailing. I picked him up, swaddled him in a fluffy blue blanket, and rocked him quiet. I did not want to search the house and discover Frank dead; I was not sure how I would have reacted. As I left the house and stood on its threshold, I felt my Dark Mark burn from a call and, without thinking, I Apparated to Voldemort, who was pacing a dark room within the Riddle manor.

He did not look at me as I appeared by his side, gasping for breath as little Neville whimpered. I had not realized how draining it was to double-Apparate, and found myself appreciating Pandora's strength that night long ago when Remus had bitten me.

Voldemort stopped upright at a whimper, approached me slowly, and then swiped the bundle from my arms when I was still too weak to shield Neville from him. As Voldemort turned his back to me I stumbled to my knees and grasped wildly at his cloak. "Is this James' brat?" he asked as he opened the blanket. Neville cooed up at him and Voldemort grinned.

"N-no."

Voldemort nudged my body with his foot and sighed in disgust. "We don't kidnap babies and eat them, Severus, despite the rumours otherwise. If this isn't your nephew, you need to put him back where you found him."

"N-no." How could the monster joke when my friend could very well be dead? I found strength in the anger and forced myself to rise to my unsteady feet. "That's Neville Longbottom, son of Auror Frank Longbottom."

"Oh. Well, _Frank's_ son. That's all right then." Voldemort began to pace the room once more, rocking Neville in his arms. My anger swelled at Voldemort's daring, at the heartlessness of it all. But neither of us could afford my loss of temper; Voldemort watched me from the corner of his eye, amused as he gauged my reactions.

"Why was he left alive when Frank and Alice were attacked?" I asked softly. If the attack on Frank was a test for me, then I would tear the Riddle manor down upon Voldemort's head – once I had squirreled Neville to safety, of course.

"Because I _like_ children," Voldemort replied loftily. Neville squealed in his arms. "Oh, don't _frown_ like that, Severus; the Longbottoms are not dead."

"No?"

Voldemort turned back to me. "If you think I want Augusta Longbottom to come after me..." He shuddered and I was reminded of the one person who intimated _Pandora_. "What a _horrible_ woman," he muttered. "I should know; I went to school with her even if she _was_ some years behind me. She's a Hufflepuff, which may surprise you," (it did indeed), "but it suits her well enough, being the ill-tempered _badger_ that she is." He clicked his tongue. "Augusta was married six times but only retained her first husband's name. Frank was born four years _after_ her sixth marriage ended in her sixth divorce, rather late in her reproductive years. It was a horrible scandal, but no one was foolish enough to bring it to _her_ face. Hell," he muttered almost too softly for me to hear, "_I_ wouldn't."

He rocked Neville in his arms. "It is a warning to that family not to fight me," he said. "Mrs. Longbottom, to preserve her grandson, will not oppose me anymore." It was an echo of the situation of Pandora's life and I shivered as a dark foreboding wandered over what remained of my withered soul.

May Neville actually gain a backbone through _my_ badgering. It shall serve him well in his later years. Better that I be the most terrifying thing he has ever known, that the idea I would punish him for betraying his friends save you all in the end. Who knows? Our actions all create ripples, which effect the future. Come what may, between Augusta Longbottom and myself, Neville will learn to stand on his own two feet (or we will kill him trying).

Little by little, in the next nine months, Voldemort snuck plans and meetings past me without my knowledge. He ordered attacks on those who opposed him, and I was unable to pass the information to James. Voldemort had somehow gained a spy. This brought us to a dead standstill, with the Aurors knowing what Voldemort would do, and with Voldemort knowing how the Aurors planned to respond.

Finally, many of the Aurors gathered together in a single meeting to brainstorm. James refused to inform me where it was located and I could not begrudge him of this. At the time, it was just as well. Voldemort wanted to speak with me about a special mission.

I knelt before him as he sat on his chair surrounded by the twisting shadows. Lucius stood at his right. "Severus," Voldemort said softly as he tapped the end of his wand against one thigh, "I need a party-wrecker. Lucius here does not wish to lead and you are the only one whom I believe capable of not botching this mission."

Behind my mask, my eyebrow twitched. "A party-wrecker?" I said. "Surely that is better left to those who have already lost all semblance of dignity."

Something flashed across his face. "Do you question my decision?"

"No, my lord," I said, bowing deep enough for my forehead to brush his knees. "Merely that being a party-wrecker sounds rather oafish, and I do have the dignity of my name to live up to."

"Perhaps not a party-wrecker," Voldemort amended lightly as he swept one of his hands through my hair. I grimaced at his touch; who knew that he preferred greasy black hair? "There are Muggles and Wizarding folk alike gathering together alike to celebrate this Easter holiday. I think it would do to remind these people that there _is_ no celebration for these dark times. Kill some or toy with some, but destroy their mood and festivities."

As I left to gather together those who would carry this out mission with me, I smelled someone. Undoubtedly that seems a very strange observation to you, but I was well acquainted with that smell. I did help Lily select that particular aftershave set for a Christmas gift, after all. (Laugh at the idea of my carrying Lily's shopping bags, if you will, but _someone_ had to help her carry her bags and a certain _other_ someone had decided it was far safer fighting Voldemort headlong than it was braving the Muggles' shopping malls during holidays with an almost equally-pregnant Petunia for company.)

I saw a plump little figure cowering near a corner of Voldemort's throne at the edge of the light. I recognized the form of Peter Pettigrew, confirmed by the stench of that Christmas gift. I knew the distinct way he had of standing hunched over, feet splayed wide and hands clenched tightly.

I strangely felt satisfied in my discovery. Peter had betrayed the person who trusted him more than I was trusted. I, a child whom the world had destroyed the chances to learn trust, had placed myself explicitly in that very same person's hands. I stowed the information back in the recesses of my mind where it would rest until I informed someone other than James. As satisfied as I was in learning Peter's betrayal, I found I could not hurt my brother by informing him of his best friend's betrayal. No; Sirius Black deserved to be the first told.

Easy said and easy done was my mission, for most of it, at least. There were six places I went. I did not kill, I commanded there would be no death created by the forty Death Eaters I led, for just destroying their festivities and teasing people at each place was enough to remind them Voldemort should not be forgotten so easily. Raving lunatics at Saint Mungo's usually convey a more impressive message than a rotting corpse.

In the end, it was only a set-up against _me_. Another of Voldemort's tests, one that went horrible wrong? I do not know.

The Death Eaters had their own commands. At the first five places, the Death Eaters did as I had commanded, scaring and toying with the humans. At the sixth place, they attacked and killed directly. I stood in the shadows of a building and watched in horror when I realized this was not the same as all those other places. I heard the screams that swiftly turned from fear into pain and agony. This was not toying — this was death. I was enraged that the Death Eaters should disobey my orders and kill when I had commanded otherwise, but when I saw Sirius fall out of the front door, struggling with one Death Eater over a wand, I realized this was the meeting James had mentioned.

Voldemort had known and had given his own separate commands for this particular location.

My rage turned into a chilling fear and I rushed headlong to the building. My _brother_ was in that building, along with Lily… and you. I did not care if Voldemort would kill me for helping James directly before the Death Eaters. I was not going to betray James' trust this time or any other time. I finally had the trust, which I thought impossible to receive, and I treasured it beyond my own life.

The Death Eater Sirius fought threw him off and Sirius slammed into the wall. His head crashed against it with an awful crunch. He looked stunned and one arm twitched as I levered my own wand against the Death Eater and uttered the Killing Curse. I bent over Sirius even before the body dropped. "Are you well?" I asked. Sirius squinted at me and I wondered if the blow to his head had addled what little brain he used. I heard Lily scream and saw a flash of light. I heard you wail. Sirius reached up and grabbed hold of my mask as I stood and followed your screams. I never noticed as I retaliated against the Death Eaters.

The Aurors fought against their attackers, and it was a close battle even with my surprised attack at the flanks of the Death Eaters. From the moment I entered to the very end of the battle, everything remains a blur to me. It all happened too fast and I was too filled with desperation, fear, and anger to think clearly. All I know is that I killed. All I know is that I followed _your_ screams to my doom.

My next comprehensible memory of that time is standing before Sirius, the only other conscience adult in that entire building. Sirius had trouble focusing his eyes and kept leaning to the side, slightly off-balanced. I held you close, Harry. Your cries were still and I first thought you were dead, because Lily had been holding you when both she and James had been struck unconscious from the Cruciatus curse. Sirius tried to pry you loose from my arms, but I, too tired to fling any more spells, tried to jab out his eyes with my wand. He stumbled out of my reach and looked like he would tear me from limb to limb just as soon as he could figure out which of the two of me he saw was the right one.

"Get help," I said to Sirius. "Get help for everyone." I turned back to where James' body was curled in a foetal position on the floor, his hands twitching even while unconscious. You finally stirred in my arms and reached out to your father.

"Papa?"

"Needs help," I said. Sirius decided he could speak as well. I should have aimed for his voice box instead of his eyes.

"You — I don't trust you, you scum-sucking death-consuming filthy street rat! I'm not going to get help with you here near James and holding Harry. You might kill them!"

I said nothing as I pulled the upper part of James' body onto my lap and let you tangle your hands in his hair. Sirius would not risk attacking me when I was so shielded.

"I don't trust you!" He stumbled to stand in my line of vision. I looked up him and he blinked several times as disbelief filled his face.

"I don't trust myself either," I whispered. "Go to Dumbledore and tell him what happened here. Get help." James twitched in my arms. "I am n-not going anywhere." Still, Sirius would not move. "I swear upon Pandora Potter's wrath, I will not go anywhere. I will _stay_ here."

Comforted with the idea that Pandora would flay me alive upon learning I was a Death Eater, Sirius finally hurried away. I do not know how long I held you and your father, but some time later a man with wild hair and a roaming Magic Eye stood before me.

"Severus Snape?" he asked, sounding uncertain of whether I was even aware of his presence. I realized I had been crying, but for how long I did not know; perhaps I had first started crying when I retaliated against the Death Eaters. This surprised me. I thought I was incapable of shedding tears for someone I loved after I had destroyed my humanity at Voldemort's behest, and I think this Auror was equally surprised for the very same reason. He regarded me a long moment. "I am Alastor Moody, and you are under arrest."


	13. In Conclusion

_In which Severus Snape reveals his heart and soul. (Dignity? What is this thing called dignity?)_

* * *

I must admit I was one of the lucky few. How? Because I had a fair trial.

Maybe.

As fair trials go, it lacked in such things as, oh, reason and justice and an unbiased judge. I was found guilty of consorting with Voldemort, killing Muggles and Magic-users alike, attacking Aurors with the intent to do harm, and use of the Forbidden Curses. All true, of course, but all under extenuating circumstances.

I was asked only two questions and my answers were the only words I spoke since being arrested. If I had answered the questions with the whole truth instead of the partial truth, protested against the evidence, or had explained I was a spy, I might have been found innocent or, at the very least, had a reduced sentence.

But when I saw Lily enter the court with Dumbledore, little you in her arms while Dumbledore carried a baby sack on his shoulder, I knew guilt because I was the one who brought this risk upon you, upon James, and upon Lily. Everyone would have been attending a funeral rather than a trial had the outcome been any worse.

Well, most everyone would have attended a funeral since the rest (myself) would have been rotting away in prison.

I saw hatred, anger, confusion, and betrayal appear in Lily's face. In that moment, I regressed to the beginning of my fifth year, feeling woefully misunderstood and distrusted_. I may not have trusted, but I could be trusted._ Where was James? Where was my brother during my trial? I thought surely he felt betrayed, and could not bear to face me. Though it hurt, I accepted my due.

The evidence was laid out, and then witnesses against me appeared. I remained silent, but when character witnesses were called forward to speak on my behalf, no one — not even Dumbledore — volunteered. I thought, _So that is how it will be. Very well. This is an excellent opportunity to cut the ties from Dinsmore permanently. _No one would miss me; I had shamed the man whose name I bore, and brought disgrace upon my family.

In the light of all the fighting Pandora and James had waged against Voldemort, in the light of the murders Voldemort had done within the family, I felt it better to be placed behind bars and forgotten.

Judge Barty Crouch stood before me at the end of the trial and said, "Why did you become a Death Eater?"

"For knowledge," I replied. Knowledge to help James, to tell my brother of Voldemort's plans.

He frowned down upon me. "Did you enjoy it?"

Enjoy it? Did I enjoy the time I spent with James, being closer to him and trusting him and he trusting me as we never did before, brought together to defeat the one man who was tearing our lives apart? Were it not for what I became, I would never have known this exquisite thing known as trust, or even have ever known such closeness to him as I once had when we were children. It made me feel something I never felt before: simple, actual trust for a single person; trust that extended even beyond what I granted Pandora Potter. And — dare I say it? — it also made me feel human and whole, instead of the misfit oddball from the slums. Words cannot describe how precious that trust, even if it was now shattered, had been to me.

This trust… it meant more to me than life itself.

I smiled. "Of course."

He banged his gavel and declared me guilty. I was sentenced to life in Azkaban.

* * *

Truth be told, Harry, that place is not as bad as people would have you believe. I'm sure that your godfather would lament at great lengths of his misery, but I cannot say I feel sorry for him. It may not have been Buckingham Palace, but it is through our miserable situations that we come to appreciate the more simple blessings in life.

Granted, your godfather and everyone else locked within those ice-cold stone walls, shut behind bars and trapped in their worst memories, did not have the experience that I had to appreciate the simple things in life.

Yes, it was cold, but it was _dry_! It did not drip or drizzle and the drafts were not fierce gales of wind that carried snow and sleet. It was a sheltered place – with a _roof_!

Oh, sure the dementors stole happy memories and good feelings, leaving people trapped in their hopelessness and knowledge of what they had done. But I was used to living in slums that knew only wickedness, as hope never existed long enough to die. All my memories were never completely happy but overlaid with a sense of bitterness and expectations from my life as a gutter rat.

Indeed, I derived a great deal of satisfaction from knowing I was better off in Azkaban than in the slums. Nor could the dementors take away my memories of the slums, as they were certainly not happy memories. As such, I did not lose the satisfaction. It puzzled them that I could not be broken. I could be dulled and numbed, but not bled dry, broken, or driven insane as other prisoners were.

The prisoners were also fed regularly, which is a very large bonus compared to the times on the streets where I would go days without food. And the food? Clearly of much better quality than what you would find rummaging through a garbage bin.

Perhaps the best thing of all, in my opinion, was the isolation of the prisoners. This meant no human contact, which I'm sure many think is the cruellest punishment of all, but human contact is overrated. After all, rape is a thing unheard in Azkaban. I was very happy living with the knowledge no one would be assaulting me for a stolen moment of cheap gratification. This happiness could not be taken either and, even when I was left with the memories of those lives I had taken, I still clung to the notion their lives had been sacrifices, just as mine had been. A sacrifice to rid the world of the man who would demolish it so effortlessly.

In short, Azkaban is an overrated nightmare, and the Ministry of Magic would do well if they knew this. (Not that I advocate the raping, starving, and exposing inmates to the elements as a different punishment…)

And then James came to visit me four months into my sentence.

Oh, he was spitting fire and brimstone. I felt his rage the moment my cell door swung open and he stormed in to stand over where I was seated at my window, gazing at the ice fields outside. I did not know why he suddenly decided I deserved a visit, but clearly it had something to do with his rage.

James waited until the dementor who allowed him into my cell had moved beyond hearing to speak with me. "Why didn't you tell them?" he asked softly, though I knew he wanted to shout and vent his frustrations. I held my tongue and he began to pace the room, wringing his hands and his eyes darting wildly. "Why didn't you tell them Voldemort gave you the choice of death or joining him, and you joined him with the intent of becoming my spy? That you had to protect Lily?"

"Did you tell them?" I asked softly.

He glared at me. "No!" I knew he was struggling to keep his uneasy hold upon his temper. "I came here as soon as I was aware of anything!"

This was not what I expected to hear. "Aware?"

"I was in a coma for the first eight weeks, and the last eight were spent in therapy, gaining back my lost senses. No one told me you were sent here to this godforsaken prison until Sirius let it slip that you had gotten your just desserts; everyone thought you were guilty. Even Lily. I forced Sirius to explain what he meant. Everyone who knows what happened to you — and thankfully it's only a damn few — thinks you were the spy telling Voldemort the Aurors' plans. Dumbledore told me you willingly become a Death Eater for knowledge and you _enjoyed_ it."

He glared at me as if he fully expected me to apologize for being found guilty. I wanted to tell him Peter was Voldemort's spy, but I could not summon the strength to say anything. At that moment, the only other time in my life where I ever felt so utterly drained and hopeless was when I had been bitten by Remus. So James did not come to see me at my trial because he felt I was a betrayer, but because he had been incapable of anything. At least he never abandoned me. For that I felt gratitude – which the dementors promptly sucked away. Oops.

James knelt down so we were eyelevel.

"We both know you became a Death Eater for knowledge about Voldemort's actions, and I have seen your eyes after you came from your missions. I have seen the pain and the grief you harbour within yourself and wouldn't share with me. I know you didn't enjoy what you did. _Why'd _you say you did? If you had _told_ them otherwise, they'd have offered you a chance to exchange information and names for freedom. _Why'd _you allow them to imprison you _here_ instead of explaining to them that you were _my spy_?"

I remained silent, and he rocked back on his heels. "You want to stay here," he spoke flatly, all anger gone from his voice when he realized the truth. As I nodded, he sobbed and threw his arms around me. "Oh Sev," he cried, hugging me tightly. "You were always the strong one, just like Grandmother. You may have been affected by what others did to you, but you never let it hold you back and even when I'd have sought revenge, you forgot, if not forgave, the matter. _Where's_ your strength now?"

I patted his arm, secretly wondering too where was this strength that James mentioned. Where it had been all my life? Odd how it always before seemed to escape my notice. _Did_ I actually forget what others did to me, when I only used such experiences as mortar for my brick walls of cold defence? Each perceived slight only hardened my resolve. How could this be forgetting? I hid behind those walls, too frightened to emerge from them and open myself up to trust.

This would be more aptly described as cowardice, not strength.

In a way, Azkaban was my escape from the world. It was my way of slipping away from all the horrors Voldemort created and the pain others felt, of letting everyone forget me. Yes, it was cowardice, I will admit to that now. Yet how fitting it was that my brother, the person I had inadvertently betrayed the most, should be the only one to visit me in my chosen confinement. "Leave me be," I said finally. "Forget about me. All that I need is here."

James pulled away and regarded me at arm-length. I weakly waved him off, truly wanting to share my thoughts and feelings, yet still unable to summon the strength needed. "Do you have nothing left?" he asked as more tears slid down his face. The tears… looked bloody in the dim light.

All I could do was stare, unable to answer. He covered his mouth in alarm. He must have thought I had given up all reason for living. Perhaps he blamed it on Azkaban itself. After a moment, he yanked off his heavy winter robe and wrapped it around me. "I'll be back," he promised fiercely as he hugged me once more. "I'm not leaving you here to rot! You're every bit a hero as I am and you don't deserve to be here. This isn't right."

"It's not that bad," I said quickly. I hastened to explain what I meant as confusion filled his face. "There's food, and it's not wet." He smiled through his bloody tears and shook his head at me, perhaps remembering that dirty and thin child Pandora had brought home so many years ago.

"Won't you ever move on from the past?" he asked me softly before retreating.

That made me think and question his words, my motives. Yet the more I puzzled through his meaning, the more I recalled how much of my life was dominated by my experiences and memories from the slums. Every sentiment I held for mankind, my desire to learn, my inability to trust and the difficulty I had in accepting love for and from other people. Even the ways I moved and thought came from being a simple little gutter rat who lived only five, six, perhaps seven years on the streets.

When my cell door swung open for another visitor one month later, I had been struggling with a dawning truth – a truth that frightened me more than Voldemort or James. I sat on my narrow cot, doubled over with my head in my lap and my arms folded over it to shield myself from the world. I did not move as a weight settled beside me on the cot and a gentle hand rubbed my back.

"Severus," came a voice I had not heard in five years. I slowly unfolded myself and beheld Pandora. Her arms encircled my shoulders and pulled me into a loving embrace before I could move to do the same. And though I did not want to admit this dawning truth to even myself, I knew she needed to know. And my damnable eyes began to leak.

"Grandmother." I wept as she began to rock. "Wherever I go, the slums follow me."

"Hush, darling. You're not well."

"Everything I do, everything I say, it's all as if I am still there, wary of those who will sell me out." I pulled free to look at her. She was far more fragile than I had ever seen. Pandora was thin and old, hair white as Dumbledore's, dark eyes sunken and bloodshot from too much reading and not enough sleep. The only thing that seemed to keep her from collapsing in an exhausted faint was the very same dignity of which I had been wary the first moment I had seen her, approaching a brick wall just outside Diagon Alley. "I will never escape the slums, will I? You can remove the gutter rat from the slums, but you can _never_ remove the slums from the gutter rat." My head drooped depressingly onto her breast. "Let me stay here," I said, rubbing my damp eyes against her sleeve. "I can live with the slums here without trouble."

"No." Her arms tightened around me. "James told me of what you did."

Anger flared, directed at James. Why did he have to drag Pandora into this? Did he not realize how desperately Pandora sought a way to defeat Voldemort? I could have remained here without her having to be interrupted and distracted. Yet I should not have been surprised that this was what James did. Three times was I in mortal danger, and three times James turned to Pandora.

When Peter knocked me out of the boat, James demanded that Pandora be contacted and come to Hogwarts. When Remus had bitten me, James fetched Pandora, regardless of the punishment he might have received for his transgressions. When I wished to remain in Azkaban, letting my life slip away between my fingers, wasted despite what everyone invested, James fled to Pandora. All the times I desperately needed help, James turned to the only person he knew would help, and that was our grandmother. He never sought her help for anything or anyone but myself, as if he could not trust his own ability to assist me in my perilous need. In that, I know he loved me just as I loved him.

"Leave me alone," I said, trying to pull away from her.

"Why?"

"I belong here."

She slapped me. The sharp sting of flesh hitting cold flesh rocked my world for a moment. The numbness in my mind disappeared at the horror that _Pandora_ had actually _struck_ me. Pandora, who had never raised her voice in anger at either myself or James in all the years she had raised us.

She stood upright, frightfully angry and brimming with indignation. "Now you listen to me, Severus Dominic Snape: You may think you belong here and you may believe the world doesn't need you, but if you so much as even think for just one second that you are going repay my kindness and my love, make up for _everything_ that I had to _endure_ and pay me back the price of my soul and bed that is Riddle's due, by just disappearing off the face of this earth and finishing the end of your days in this horrible place, then you best take that thought and stuff it where the sun doesn't shine!"

I looked at her for a moment then wearily slumped over my cot. Her anger turned to worry. "Oh, my darling - are you ill?" she asked me, pressing a warm hand against my bruised cheek.

"I'm tired," I said. "I don't want to go back — really, there's nothing to go back to. Frank's crazy, no one will believe James if he says I'm a spy and it will be worth my life if anyone finds out, and no one spoke up for me at the trial. They don't care if I come back and neither do I."

The anger returned. "_I_ believed James!"

I held my head and laughed. "You _know_ he has never lied to you and never will." I turned my back to her and curled into a ball. "Where will I go?" I asked softly. "Who will take a convicted Death Eater like myself?" The arm with the Dark Mark trembled and I clamped my other hand over it. What else could I say? My ambition seemed drained from me in the hopeless disparity of my situation.

"I'll get you out of here," Pandora promised me as she swept out of my cell. "If I have to conspire with Riddle himself to jail-bust you out of here and then go underground somewhere in Bermuda, then so be it!"

It was an amusing image to be left with, but it did nothing to hold back my dark thoughts.

What are regrets and what are hopes when, in the light of my past, I squashed regrets and never formed hopes? Yet never underestimate a woman who has her mind made up, Harry. Whoever said, "Hell knoweth no fury like a woman scorned," must have been on the receiving end of the said scorned woman's wrath. Whether Pandora believed it her duty to help me or perhaps she thought there was something I could live up to after leaving Azkaban, she _did_ find a way to get me out without compromising my reputation with either the Aurors or the Death Eaters.

Pandora showed up at the Ministry of Magic's doorstep, a whirlwind of righteous fury. She threatened, ranted, raved, called on dozens of favours, levered her reputation and power, greased palms right and left with the family fortune, and finally received a recall on my sentence from the Very Higher Up. She had the element of surprise on her side because no one had seen her for more than five years, and it was forgotten how vicious the matron of the Potter family, Slytherin through and through, could be when she wanted her own way. In the end, there were stipulations: a lifetime of community service, under the care of a very powerful, very competent wizard that was not a Potter. Pandora then went directly to Dumbledore and told him the entire truth as she knew it from James. Dumbledore agreed to help her by taking me as an employee — for what, he truly had no idea but he was sure to think of something, he assured her.

Pandora wasted little time in snatching me out of Azkaban when the word came through from the Very Higher Up. She led me past the dementors, glaring at anyone who would stop her. She made public appearances long enough to ruthlessly squash rumours of my being a Death Eater. Easily done, as my arrest and trial had been kept under wraps. Of those who were part of her close-mouthed negotiations, only James and Dumbledore knew of my reality.

According to anyone who remembers Pandora (and even the history books; the Potter family made an entire chapter in _Magical Mysteries Never Solved_), James was the last to see her alive; accordingly, Pandora disappeared afterwards, never to be seen or heard of again. It was assumed she died as nothing ever became known of her after James' death. With the slaughter of her family, everyone supposed that James' funeral would have been enough to bring her into the public eye again, even if it was only to lay claim of you, her great-grandson, another Potter orphaned by Voldemort's hands.

Dumbledore and Pandora exchanged owls about information of the Fidelius Charm, but everyone believes that James was the person who physically saw her last. Pandora took him to the side and spoke to him softly. Having told him what she wished to say, she left. Only two alive could tell you of what passed between them: Dumbledore and myself.

James told me, before Dumbledore performed the spell that would hide you and your parents from the world, that Pandora was off to directly attack Voldemort for the first, and last, time in her life. She was worried she would not survive it and was not strong enough to completely destroy Voldemort, so she wished James to be gone, completely. That, she said, was the only way James would be protected, as he was the person who would be in the most danger; no longer would he have sanctuary, and Voldemort's revenge and retaliation would be completely directed at him.

Pandora was determined to carry out her plan, no matter the risk. She had the means in which to get close, though she never mentioned to James (despite how he teased her when her face turned red) what those means were.

I reiterate my own feelings: eww.

I, however, am the last to see Pandora alive.

A week after the Charm was performed — the day of your parents' deaths — Dumbledore allowed me to return to Dinsmore without an escort. He trusted me, he said, and it was not his place to spoil my last moments at what had been my home for more than fifteen years. The portraits were subdued and quiet as they watched me roam the cottage for the last time. It was dusk as I stood at the base of Dinsmore, my trunk at my feet and filled with the sparse things I found I could not be parted.

I felt someone Disapparate behind me. As I turned with a greeting, my words died on my lips. Pandora stood before me, hunched over with blood drenching her side. Her eyes darted nervously around and her chest heaved with painful gasps. I took a step forward to steady her and she shook her head, batting me away with one hand.

"Pandora – Grandmother, what happened?"

"That snake bit me!" Pandora sounded more angry than hurt. "That damned snake _bit_ me after I stripped Tom of what power I could manage!" She gazed at me with wide, unseeing eyes. "It flew everywhere," she whispered with her voice filled with awe. "Such magnificent power… It was like a liquid that, it just poured! It took all my concentration to gather it together and use it as a lever to strip more from him." She growled and gritted her teeth. "I was not paying attention and I should have! I would have gotten away but for that damned snake." She swayed suddenly.

"Here." I offered her my hand. "We'll get you to St. Mungo's."

Pandora laughed bitterly, sounding eerily like James did when I had told him of my proposal to spy. "No. The poison moves too fast through my body – it will kill me in less than an hour. Another Apparation will kill me outright." She smiled. For a brief moment, she looked no different from that time long ago when she offered me a bowl of peaches and cream. "I brought this to you." She held a small box out to me, plain but for the silver fringe-like edging between the lid and the main body of the box. I solemnly took it from her and looked at her expectantly. "The poison—" she pressed a hand against her side "—there is hope, one way to cure it, but it will require a wild jump."

"Jump?" I repeated. She swayed unsteadily again and I reached out to help her, but she irritably pushed my hand away.

"Where I need to go no one may Apparate. Not even Tom Riddle may enter this place where I go." A look of worry creased her brow. "I just hope someone'll grab me. If no one does I _shall_ die. I suppose it will make no difference in the end, then."

I was confused and already I could feel the sharp loss of her life. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, Severus." She reached out and gripped my hand. "Don't trouble your mind. I merely go to my mother's family." Her mother, who had gone to warmer waters, whatever that meant. "I just hope young Pettigrew remains strong enough," she whispered. "I fear there are dark trials in store for James."

"What does that cowardly Peter have to do with James?" I asked darkly, still trying to recall what I knew of her mother. "The damn turncoat is a spy for Voldemort."

If I had struck Pandora, her look of stunned dread would have been no different. She raised her arms, as if to shield herself from the truth. "Peter is a spy?" She curled her arms around her body and screamed – the hair on the back of my neck rose on end at the anguish. "What have I done?" she wailed. "I have killed James!"

"What? How?"

"No more!" Pandora pushed past me, dragging her left leg behind her. "We must get the Mirror of Rebounds." She seemed to regain her strength, or at least swept her emotional agony under the press of more demanding things. I ran after her as she stormed into Dinsmore, throwing the doors open without a heed to their weight. "Tom's coming," she whispered as she swept through the lightless corridors. I believed her. My Dark Mark began to burn with an intensity I had never before experienced. I clamped a hand tight over it to dull the pain. "No. Not Tom. He stopped being Tom Riddle long ago, didn't he?"

I failed to see the need to respond, and Pandora began to weep and babble at the same time. "Voldemort comes. I did not defeat him; I couldn't. He is weak though, and he will never regain the strength he possessed before tonight." She dropped a hand upon the box I carried and caressed its wood. "Open that only under dire circumstances and when your only other choice is to die." She finally reached and entered her room. Lily had kept it dusted and clean, in ready anticipation of Pandora's return. Sitting on the top of her chest of drawers was a royal blue-coloured cloth draped over a small round frame. She tore away the cloth to reveal a mirror hinged between two triangular poles. Its glass was inky grey and too dim to reflect.

Pandora shoved this into my arms. "A family heirloom of considerable power: The Mirror of Rebounds shows anything you desire so long as it happened." She looked into my eyes and then threw her arms around me in a tight hug. "Take care," she whispered before reluctantly pulling away. "Go to Albus Dumbledore," she said. "Go to him — don't stop for anyone or dawdle. You must get to him immediately and tell him that — that…" She wailed keenly. "Tell him that James and Lily are in danger, that Voldemort _knows _where they are — their secret keeper has or will betray them."

With more strength than I thought possible, she heaved me out of her bedroom and slammed the door shut. I whirled around and kicked the door as she locked it. "Grandmother!" I cried as I threw my weight against it. The wood bent but did not give.

"_Go_ to Albus!" she cried shrilly on the other side. "For the love of your brother, help James before it's too late!" I stared at the door for a moment, then Apparated as close to Hogwarts as I dared. I dropped the box and the mirror at the lake's shore and dashed headlong to Hogwarts, yelling for Dumbledore and McGonagall. Students still awake jumped from the path of my mad rush. Dumbledore met me at the base of the castle and I nearly ploughed through him before I realized he blocked my way.

"What is it?" His eyes were sharp and penetrating behind his glasses.

"Sirius — Pandora — !" I gasped for a quick breath, gathered my thoughts into a semblance of order, and then straightened. I found I could not tell Dumbledore that I had seen Pandora. "James is in trouble," I said finally. "Voldemort is going after him and he knows where James is."

Dumbledore frowned. "Are you sure?"

I nodded. "There is a traitor," I said, remembering Peter. Did Peter become a traitor because _Sirius_ was one? I had wondered for years afterwards.

Dumbledore immediately launched into action. He commanded me to stay out of the matter as he called McGonagall to him. I watched as they left, feeling helpless. They and several other instructors flew off on their brooms and then Apparated once outside Hogwarts' barriers. Madam Pomfrey appeared behind me and the Bloody Baron shooed the students off to their Houses as he told them it was not safe to be outside. After a moment of staring at my back, Pomfrey gave me an unexpected hug.

I responded with stunned silence and a wide-eyed stare. "Severus," she said, "I haven't had a chance to say this, but I don't see you as a horrid man who became a Death Eater." She patted my arm. "I see you as a frightened and lonely child, scared and hurt from mischief gone too terribly wrong. Don't worry; James, Lily, and little Harry will be fine."

They would not be.

Pomfrey left and I went back to the edge of the lake to fetch the things I had dropped. Upon seeing them, I remembered my trunk and decided I would do no harm should I quickly Apparate to Dinsmore long enough to grab the trunk's handles and then returned to Hogwarts with the trunk on tow.

I paused a moment to straighten the mirror and the box Pandora had given me, and then Apparated to where my trunk sat. The moment I was aware of my surroundings I perceived something was wrong. The air was heavy with smoke and heat. I screwed my eyes shut, covered my mouth and coughed, blindly reaching for my trunk. When my hand found a handle and tightened around it, I opened my eyes and peered through the thick smoke.

I felt a strange emptiness when I saw Dinsmore engulfed in flames, fire reaching to the sky. A black figure stood silhouetted against the flames, cape fluttering wildly as orange embers floated about. The figure turned to face me. My Dark Mark blazed suddenly with pain and I wildly Apparated back to Hogwarts, almost crazy with fear, and nearly splinching myself in my crazed haste. The rage I had felt even from the distance was overwhelming and my retinas burned with the red hue of the black figure's rage. Overlaying that was agony and sorrow.

I collapsed to my knees beside the Mirror of Rebounds and Pandora's box. My eyes settled upon the dark glassAs I gazed at the mirror, I ached to see Pandora one last time.

This… this is all very difficult to write.

Of all the things I have had to explain, this is the hardest. I relive these memories for the sake of writing them for you, and it is painful to think of the what-may-have-been's, what-if's, and knowing there is nothing that can be done to change the damage wrought. My pride has been swallowed more times than I care to think; my face has burned with humiliation through most passages.

But here, my hand trembles and the ink blurs. Pain constricts my chest; my lungs refuse to draw in breath. Where did these watery splotches on the parchment come from? They're fresh…

The mirror darkened black and then lightened suddenly, as if someone had turned on a light from within. It was foggy before the image sharpened and I saw Pandora slam her bedroom door shut before my surprised face. She bent against it, screaming and shaking her head, then hid her face in her hands as she sank to the floor. After scrubbing at it, she raised her hand and I saw her face, saw the agony and grief adding years. She looked directly at the ceiling, wrapped her arms around herself, and moved her lips. I don't know what she said, but eventually she faded away. Not disappearing immediately as she would have if she Apparated but faded instead, as if she gradually lost substance.

The mirror's picture changed and showed Dinsmore burning with Voldemort stood before it. He slouched over with one hand clasping an end of his cloak close. Heat waves danced before his image. He had been staring at the flames, but after a moment, he glanced up and _saw me._ Across time and across distance, he _saw_ me. Such was his power even after Pandora's attack. His eyes held a shattered look; a mingling of pain, betrayal, rage, hatred, and sorrow. A moment passed before his rage boiled forward and something popped.

I fell backwards as the images disappeared and inky darkness was all I could see within the mirror before I realized there a fine crack had appeared to run along the glass' surface. A dark liquid seeped from the crack. As I wordlessly reached out to touch the mirror, the very aspect of it changed.

It warped, and then I saw James fall backwards limply, a green light clinging to his body. I watched in frozen horror as Lily appeared before the twisted form of Voldemort, poised and ready to fight. I saw, but did not hear, words exchange. Then Voldemort pointed his wand at Lily as she flung herself forward to cover a swaddled babe: you. Green light burst forward and tears blurred my vision.

"Stop it!" I could tolerate no more. I had just witnessed the deaths of two family members and the fate of a third. I did not want to see what Voldemort had in store for your fragile body. I could not stand the idea of seeing you, who had never done anything to anyone, the most innocent of us all, tortured and killed. _It was too much_. I struck the mirror to wipe away its pictures, and it toppled against Pandora's box. The box fell to its side and the hinged lid swung open. A light, an odd mixture of deep green and baby blue, both of which seemed to be warring against one another for command, blasted forth. The green absorbed the blue, took on a lighter hue, and pulsated with a new life. Frightened even more, I snatched up the box and slammed it shut. The light shot directly into the air as if it were launched free, split in half, and then disappeared into two distances.

* * *

And now we come to the end of my tale. There is nothing left to explain. After you somehow managed to destroy Voldemort — how, I truly have no idea, perhaps I should have kept watching the Mirror of Rebounds because then we would all know exactly how you managed to do such a thing — the Aurors launched an all-out brutal assault against stunned Death Eaters everywhere. The Potions instructor at Hogwarts was among those was found guilty and Dumbledore allowed me to assume the position.

You were sent to the Dursleys who would raise you and prevent an inflated ego from being the Boy-Who-Lived, although there is no ego to be encouraged from such a bloody heritage. Peter framed Sirius who was sent to Azkaban without a trial, and though Dumbledore knew Peter was the true secret keeper, there was no way he could prove Sirius' innocence. If I had told him Peter was Voldemort's spy, perhaps Dumbledore could have negotiated for a recall on Sirius' sentence, but for more than a decade I honestly and truly believed Sirius had been James' and Lily's secret keeper. Because I thought him to be a Death Eater so had to have been Peter, ever willing to follow like a brainless sheep over a cliff after the herd.

I have fulfilled my duty. I, the one remaining person alive who truly knows the depths of the Snape/Potter heritage and history, have passed it to the only living blood member of the Snape/Potter family. There is more, I imagine; so much more that would broaden the general knowledge of your family, but that is the main gist. You now know why Voldemort hates you and why you are kinless.

I must now answer Voldemort's insistent call. I may no longer hold off.

I know that going to Voldemort will be my death. Rather than have this valuable information die with me, I took it upon myself to write you this (abysmally long) letter. I could not explain anything of the Potter family without my own ties, and that could not be done in spurts and fragments. Like it or not, the little gutter rat Pandora rescued from Voldemort possessed as many ties to the Potter family as do you.

Fate has deemed to throw you against the Dark Wizard who had been born Tom Marvelo Riddle. One cannot butt heads against Fate, but one may be prepared for what Fate has decided. By knowing _what_ you are, you find clues to _who_ you are. Whether you find that a comfort or not — at least, coming from me — it is the truth. There are few things I leave you after all I have done to you, but these: a testimony of your father, your family's greatness, and perhaps a little of the enigma known as Voldemort. It is the most precious thing I can give anyone.

At least I shall not be alive for you to gloat over when you receive this. That, I suppose, is the one blessing.

_Severus D Snape _


	14. Snape's Revenge

****_In which Severus Snape has the last laugh. Also: Snape discovers the joys of toaster ovens!_

* * *

On the first day of July, I finish the letter by signing the name I have both honoured and shamed. I even add a little flourish to it in the same manner as James. Remembering my brother — seeing him in my mind, bent over his letters as a youth and his tongue caught between his teeth in concentration — fills my heart with a now-quite-familiar ache. It hurts even more to let a simple memory from my past, back then a simpler and more kinder life, interrupt my stream of thoughts than to remember those milestones where the changes were catalytic.

I stare at the letter and release a heavy breath, settling back and relaxing at last. Forty rolls of parchment I have used to explain to Harry Potter that which he has the right to know, and more than three weeks of steady daily writing went into this. That does not include how many times I've had to rewrite the damn thing.

There is so much to tell him still.

Too much. I have not the time. I skipped both sleep and meals to do what I could, resting only when my hand cramped too painfully to curl around the quill and force words forth.

Food and sleep no longer matter; I will soon be rid of this body and its mortal needs.

With each approaching day I feel Voldemort call me. Each burst of energy and burning agony in the Death Mark is stronger than the last, until it feels as though my arm is crippled. I know he will be murderously angry with me for taking so long in answering, but it cannot be helped.

Yet I still feel frantic as I roll the parchment together. Should I tell Harry there exists more reasons for my showing dislike towards him besides his acting like Petunia, which is, of course, the truth? I understand that, as the only major mother influence in his life for his youngest years, Harry would unconsciously imitate Petunia to attract her attention and approval. I cannot blame him _too_ much, but every time I see him, I also see James; noble, brash, loyal, and trusting in the end.

I feel I have cheated both my brother and my nephew – that I am cheated _of_ my brother and nephew. For all that I have told Harry there is still so much more to be said.

I want to tell Harry of how I used to baby-sit him when he and his parents still lived at Dinsmore before Easter's attack. I want to tell Harry of how the portraits had cooed over him as a child, how he stared wide-eyed at Francis with fascination as his great-grandfather recited stories to him, and how he giggled as the twins made faces at him. I want to tell him Neville's talents are locked away, trapped behind a wall of clumsy ineptness Voldemort erected before my eyes on the very day Frank and Alice were driven mad, and the only way that wall can be broken is if Neville somehow manages to summon enough strength to sunder through. That will never happen as long as the intimidation Voldemort implanted within Neville's mind rules his life.

I want to tell Harry more of the family connections and family politics, to explain nuances and subtleties that would otherwise escape him. I want to explain connections that the knowledge of would die with me; of who to trust and who not to trust, of the brave adventures his father had, of the different Orders bent upon protecting the world from Voldemort.

I want to tell Harry I feel regret over Sirius' life wasted away in Azkaban.

I justify my hesitancy by thinking I have no time. I have told what I can, given the circumstances. Neither Sirius Black nor Remus Lupin is knowledgeable, and there is an urgency that pushes me towards Voldemort.

In the end though, it is the gutter rat within me, the part of me I could never distance myself from and never be rid of, that ultimately refuses to tell Harry. My sense of survival still screams at me. My sense of trust still aches and bleeds. I have never opened up to anyone as I had to James and Pandora and I never again shall.

I peep forth from behind my walls to lay bare this blackened lump known as a heart to Harry Potter – but not for him. I do it for James, and for Pandora. The loyalty I had for James and Pandora reaches out now to strangle me, forcing me to bravely put myself out there. That damned bloody Gryffindor quality forces me to tell the boy what I can. He may not be my flesh and blood, but he is still my nephew. Somewhere within him is the little baby I held and rocked and cleaned every time he crawled into the fireplace and ate the ashes with the simple childish belief that everything forbidden tasted good.

Oooh, that's a good memory.

I cannot help but smile at that baby, black all over from chimney soot and his bright green eyes smug with innocence and knowledge that his uncle would never hurt him. Little Harry had done everything within his limited power to turn much of his uncle's hair grey.

The smile disappears as I suddenly recall those harrowing adventures of his during the past four years at Hogwarts where he _continues_ the traditional of giving me grey hairs.

That impertinent _brat_.

Ah, Harry. What would you think of the cruel Professor Snape now, who laughs gently as he remembers you slipping out of your diaper and crawling naked through your great-grandmother's herb gardens, cheerfully eating those bugs too slow or too stupid to escape your clumsy grasp? There are a great many times I was also annoyed at Harry, and I admit the majority of my time with him at Hogwarts was spent resenting him for making me feel pain I have tried for over a decade to bury.

The moment I had seen Harry standing in the Great Hall waiting to be Sorted, I hurt. I felt that was surely how James should have looked like, eager and somewhat nervous, had I not been knocked from the boat and he frantic for my welfare. I hadn't stopped hurting then. Every time I saw Harry's head bent over parchment as he made notes, I remembered James. I remembered how much I loved my brother and tried to trust — no, _did_ trust — him. Every time Harry found trouble, I remembered James. Everything about Harry spoke of the father he should have had.

The brother dead and gone so many years from my life.

The gutter rat hates Harry with fierce passion. It needs to survive, yet the feelings Harry inflicts upon the uncle forces the gutter rat to fight like a cornered animal, ferociously trying to maintain the brick walls that protects it from the betrayal of a selfish and deceitful world.

I double over as I feel another jolt of pain from the Dark Mark. My arm becomes momentarily paralysed from the pain, and I impatiently wait for its use to return. Lord Voldemort grows _exceedingly_ impatient. I finish rolling the parchment when I can move my arm, tie a sloppy ribbon around the huge roll, and then tip my candle over to pour molten wax along the crease. Before the wax cools, I press the Snape seal against it. I spend a brief moment to admire the gracefully winged Pegasus standing triumphantly on the single word, _Snape._ The Snape family did not believe in having a family motto and in that we differed from almost all of the other old wizarding purebloods.

"It is whatever we make it," Pandora had explained to me when she first showed me the seal. "Uncle Hector Snape's motto was 'Tactics? I don't need no stinkin' tactics! Cry havoc and release the hounds of war!' Cousin Quigley's motto was 'What can I do but accept what comes? After all, what will be, will be.' Your great-grandfather Severus' motto was 'There is an exception to every rule.' And there was one relative — who shall remain nameless — whose motto can be remembered as, 'HAHAHAHAHAH!!!' Each one possesses a different motto that express different philosophies, but each to his own, yes?"

I had asked Pandora of her motto. She smiled at me then and said, "We are what we are, and that is all that we will ever be. If we aren't who we are, then who are we but someone else?"

Of all the things I may not know if James, I _did_ know his motto: "Life: it is the ultimate disease. No one has ever managed to survive it before, because you always die from it in the very end." He came up with it when he was fourteen years old and never outgrew it.

Alas! That too I have not the time to tell Harry. I wonder if Harry has a motto…

I brush my finger against the seal and then pick up the roll of parchments. I walk over to my large four-poster bed and pull a trunk out from beneath it. It's slightly singed from being too close to Dinsmore's fire. I pick it up to set it on the bed. Before I open the trunk, I place charms upon the parchment's seal to ensure no one but Harry reads what I have written.

It is bad enough I have had to share so much of my private life with an adolescent who is little more than a stranger to me, but I will not have others privy to the Potter and Snape family secrets. I open the trunk and stubbornly refuse to look at the mirror and box within. Those items, the last things Pandora gave me, belong to Harry. These things are a part of his heritage and I will not deny him anything that is his after I am dead and gone. I placed them in this trunk the very night of James' and Lily's deaths and never looked upon them since. I had not had the need for them, nor the desire to remember the most painful night of my life.

I set the parchment roll in the trunk along with the family seal, close it, and then place a few charms on the trunk as well. Having finished with that, I drape my newly written will over the trunk and drag both along behind me to Albus' office. The headmaster of the school looks up as I enter his office. He stands. He knows I have written my account for I told him my intention when he sought me out for missing meals.

It was my idea to write that family history for Harry. Albus had not suggested it.

I had _some_ dignity to retain!

Albus had preferred otherwise. _"Leave the boy,"_ he said. "_He will feel as if he must live up with his family's reputation. It is hard enough with being connected to Voldemort." _

_ "He should know what he is about. That is his right,"_ I replied. "_If he learns he was kept from the truth, it will shatter his trust in those who hold it. Believe me, Albus; it will do more harm in the long run keeping away the truth than giving it to him all at once._" That is to say nothing of how I personally feel about the entire matter of everyone constantly reminding Harry of how special he is to the wizarding world.

Lying, deceitful hypocrites, the whole lot of them. Cowardly as well, since they need a little boy, the most innocent of all, to protect them from the horrible monster known as Voldemort. They turned on him in a single instant once, and I know they would not hesitate to do so again. He is their scapegoat; a sacrificial virgin thrown to the angry volcano to appease its raging temper. Harry needs to know about his past so he can draw the strength he needs from it. Eventually, he can use his family connections in retaliation.

After all, I know that he hates being who he is because of some sadistic madman out to recreate the world. To him, that is what his past is.

But it's not. The future is a lock, and the key to freeing what lays within is the past. After all, the past is what shapes us, and it is the hardest thing to escape. How well do I know that. And how well do I know the suffering created when one cannot escape. For Harry to change himself, to move beyond the image of being the Boy Who Lived, he must know of what else there is. This letter will show him how things can be changed.

"This is it," I say as I set the trunk before Albus. "This is what I wish Harry to have upon my death." I hand him the will and he glances over it. "And this is my last will and testimony, made in sound mind and body." His eyebrows arch upon seeing what I have left to those mentioned within. In Pandora's will, she had the Snape estate split equally to between myself and James, with little trust funds to neighbourhood families and children. When James died without a will, his inheritance shifted to my care until Harry's age of majority. I now leave everything to Harry with Remus as caretaker until Harry becomes a legal adult. I know I can at least trust Remus. Remus would sooner allow himself to be flayed and tortured with silver pikes before allowing anything of Harry's entrusted to him come to harm, though I have left him — as I had with the Weasley family, all the permanent school staff I cared for in my own way, and the Longbottoms — a small fortune unto itself, though it is but a bare dent in what I inherited or what Harry will find he possesses.

_That should surprise Harry_, I think dourly as I leave Hogwarts Castle and head for the grounds beyond the anti-Apparating shields. _He about to go from being a pauper to one of the richest wizards in Europe._ The puny allowance I had created for his schooling is nothing compared to what he will soon learn he possesses.

I feel my Dark Mark burn and I finally open myself to the foreign power that resides in me. I have not used it for more than fourteen years, and though I have used it hundreds of times before, to find the link and follow it to where Voldemort demands me to be, I am still filled with the thrill and repulsion of its strength and feeling.

I had not lied when I explained to Harry the power was both pleasurable and painful, but those words do not do it any justice. Each time I use it, the power kills me in an agonizing, horrible death of fire that burns and burns. Yet is also recreates me each time, giving me back my life in a glorious splendour of reborn emotions and energies.

The feeling is almost seductive. If I could get away with it, I would allow myself to be permanently swept away in the cycle of death and birth. The power is an echo of what Voldemort, the man formally known as Tom Riddle, is like. He destroys and creates. He is both glorious and horrible. Pandora was right; had he walked a path of honesty, truth, and integrity, the man could have had everything. He had the charm and the guile to enrapture the world, and he threw it all away for the sake of ruling through fear and madness.

The power carries me away and in the process my shields are down and my entire being accepts the presence of my Dark Lord. I Apparate, the power lending me strength I usually lack. I am instantly in the room I have come to call Voldemort's Throne Room. The title is not very imaginative, but every time I see Voldemort seated in his chair with shadows cast over his features, I cannot help but think he is like a king or a god.

I gaze upon him for the first time since that fateful night Dinsmore burned. He is so different, and yet nothing about him has changed. It is as if the unnaturalness of his being finally destroyed the fragile human shell he existed within. White hairless skin glows in the darkness as lidless red eyes — still all-seeing, still filled with cunning and hunger, and yet so unnatural and empty of anything remotely human — gaze at me. They are filled with anger and his hands grip his chair arms tightly, as if he can barely restrain the urge to strike me down.

At the side of his chair, standing where Lucius used to stand before his precious son was born, is Peter Pettigrew. The coward flinches as I look at him, human handing clutching at a hand of silver. That's… new. Perhaps he feels the rage burning in me and the yearning I have to dump this man naked in the middle of the London slums with a "Mug me" sign plastered on his back. Let the vultures of the destitute tear him apart; I can think of no worst fate.

"Come, Severus." The anger disappears from Voldemort's eyes, but my Dark Mark burns and I know he is still fuming. He holds his arms out and beckons me into a sweet embrace. I hesitate only an instant before kneeling at his feet. His arms wrap around me and I find myself filled with peace as I relax against his bony knees, breathing in the stench of death. He runs his hand through my hair and grimaces at the grease.

There are many things I have never understood about Voldemort and this need of his to touch. Why? There is nothing sexual about his touch. I remember when people have touched me sexually, and it is easy to distinguish the difference between lust and simple necessity of reaching out. It's almost as if he revels in the ability to feel. I do not fight or protest. Yet how ironic it would seem to me that Voldemort is the only one, besides Pandora and little (very, _very_ little) Harry, who has ever touched me merely for the sake of physical contact.

"Do you hate me?" Voldemort asks softly as he runs his hand over my cheek and down the line of my throat.

I cannot lie. I have never lied to Voldemort. "Yes." He laughs softly at that. Still I amuse him.

Some things truly never change.

"Would you give your life for me?"

Magic calls to magic. That part of him that exists in me sings in harmony with that part of me that belongs to him. Even as the gutter rat cowers and refuses to yield, that which is his carries me along and answers. "I would."

"Your life?"

_Not that I really ever _had_ one._ "My life."

"Your soul?"

"I would if I possessed one."

He laughs again at that. "Ah yes; you sold that to me many years ago for knowledge."

"It was worth the price."

"Your heart?"

"Somewhere in the slums."

Another laugh and softer words this time. "Your blood?"

"A rock does not have blood."

"Everything?"

"That which you hold."

Hands sweep through my hair again. "For everything human granted to me out of free will, so then _I_ become human." I feel something cold press against my throat and I know this is the end. The cold presses further against my neck and I lift my head to ease the pressure. I see it is a knife, but I do not panic. "I once said I would destroy you only for a good reason. I cannot afford to play games but you remain useful to the very end. Do you willingly grant me your life?"

My eyes glance upward into Voldemort's. So empty. So very, very empty. No matter how many human gifts are granted to him, he will never be as human as he was before he sold his own soul to the Darker Powers That Be. I sometimes wish I could have seen what he was before he became this soulless monster. I wish I could have seen what Pandora saw when Tom Riddle first appeared on the Potter doorstep, what Francis saw when he was alive. I drop my neck onto the knife, feel its edge part skin, a silent assent for what I know will happen next.

To Pandora's grandson Voldemort is, at least, merciful. The little gutter rat's throat is slit from end to end, a fate that, no doubt, had originally been in store for me living in the slums had not Pandora hijacked my destiny.

How fitting.

I do not struggle but allow the pain to wash through my body. With each fluttering beat of my heart, blood bathes Voldemort. I choke as the blood floods into my lungs. His arms hold me close, gentle and caring in death. I see his hands. They are white, yet slowly gaining a healthy colour. Cold lips press their farewell to my forehead.

From out of nowhere I hear a scream. Awareness blossoms in me a moment, then pours away with my blood. I had not told Harry that, when the Mirror of Rebounds had shown James' death, I heard Pandora scream in agony. Why does that scream echo now? Does her soul feel the loss of her adopted grandson, the son of her heart? Is she still ali…

* * *

_Ding ding ding. _

"Harry!" Uncle Vernon did not look up from his newspaper as he shouted. Sitting next to him at the kitchen table, listlessly chewing on the other half of Dudley's banana, was the very person Uncle Vernon yelled for. "Answer the door!"

Harry rolled his eyes as he silently stood. He walked around Dudley's bulk and ignored the warning look Aunt Petunia shot him from where she stood beside to the toaster. He sighed as he opened the door, half expecting a neighbour or a deliveryman or — "Professor McGonagall?" Harry's eyes grew huge behind his glasses as the Head the Gryffindor House bustled past him into the living room, dragging a trunk behind her.

"Who is it?" Uncle Vernon yelled. Harry did not answer as McGonagall set the trunk before him and straightened upright. Her eyes were red-rimmed and tear tracks were prominent as she gazed sadly down at Harry. Any bright mood Harry might have gained at seeing her plummeted at the sight. He had a feeling that the news McGonagall brought was not good at all. The cold lump ever-present in his chest since Cedric died dropped to the pit of his stomach.

Uncle Vernon entered the room to see what kept Harry and froze when he saw what sort of visitor had come calling.

"You're one of them!" he roared as his face flushed a deep red. One steely-eyed look from McGonagall silenced what else he was going to say.

"I bring terrible news, Mister Potter," McGonagall said gently. "Professor Snape is dead. I understand this will come to a surprise, as there is no love lost between the two of you. However, he left some very important things meant for you only." She pointed at the trunk. " I advise you to look at them at your earliest convenience."

"Snape?" Aunt Petunia was chalk-white as she stepped forward. Harry had not realized she had entered the living room until she spoke.

McGonagall glared at her. "You know of whom I speak." A look of severe anger swept across Aunt Petunia's face.

"That worthless slimy bastard of a gutter rat?"

Something clattered suddenly in the kitchen and Dudley screeched. He waddled an escape from the kitchen. "Mum! The toaster attacked me!" he cried with one thick finger pointing behind. The others ignored him.

McGonagall picked up the trunk and shoved it into Harry's arms. "Look at them," she said softly. She glared at Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. "Leave him be until he has had a time to examine the things. Unless you would rather I stay and ensure his privacy?" Shock and revulsion filled the faces of Harry's family members. Puzzled, intensely curious, and a tad regretful as to why _Snape_ would leave _him_ anything, Harry carried to the trunk over to the base of the stairs. He paused on top of the first step, and then regarded McGonagall. "Voldemort killed him, didn't he?" he asked. "Because Snape was a spy."

McGonagall shrugged. "Voldemort killed him, but why I don't know." Harry and she silently gazed at each other for a long moment before Harry turned away. He heard Uncle Vernon speaking rapidly to McGonagall in a soft voice, but did not care for what was said. He sat the trunk down beside his bed and opened it. Colour flashed as the wards on the trunk acknowledged Harry and dissipated harmlessly. The first thing Harry noticed was the large roll of parchment papers, sealed with wax.

He pulled that out with only a brief glance at the box and mirror, and then sat cross-legged on his bed. After a moment of studying the seal, he broke it. Again colour flashed, but Harry did not feel his senses prickle in warning, so he knew the magic meant him no harm.

He read. All that day he read, until he finished as the sun was setting. Harry listlessly dropped the roll of parchments into the trunk. He felt emotionally and physically drained; well, more so than usual.

He had taken in so much information of his family, of Voldemort, especially of Snape (perhaps a little more than what he would have liked… Well, all right. A _great_ deal more than what he would have liked), that his head like it should burst. He was giddy with delight of knowing something about his father beyond the vague recollections Remus, Sirius, and Dumbledore had granted him.

Yet, also because of this letter, he had the vague notion that there was a reason why Voldemort hated him floating somewhere in the words. He understood why his family suffered. There were still questions unanswered, such as how and why he had managed to survive the Killing Curse, but this was all so confusing. Harry knew he would have to read the letter a few more times to understand and appreciate the layers of nuances.

But now was not the time. Harry did not have the strength to reread the letter. To be sure, that what had been written was rather one-sided. Harry felt that Professor Snape placed emphasis upon the things he wanted Harry to pay the most attention, and skimmed very briefly over the things he felt Harry had to know but did not want to admit too much about the matter. It was clear that he had even exaggerated many things, such as Peter Pettigrew's overall pathetic personality (though Harry was not going to complain about that point) and Sirius Black's mischievous nature.

Although it seemed disrespectful to think that maybe Snape might have exaggerated his life in the slums.

How very depressing all of it was. Harry thought _he_ had a difficult life, but all of his pain and torment paled in comparison to the rest of the family. His father witnessed a bloody massacre; his uncle survived some of the worst living conditions known to man; his grandmother persevered despite burying the scrappy remains of her beloved family. Strange how it seemed that everyone he was related to met with horrid ends even before he knew them. It spoke ill of what may be, since history had strange ways of going full circle.

Harry rummaged through the trunk and pulled out the Mirror of Rebounds. Before he knew what he was doing, Harry found himself captivated. As the pads of his fingertips brushed the cool glass, light glimmered in the glass' depths and eyes the colour of turquoise stared into his, curious and happily surprised. Harry jumped and back snatched his hands. Belatedly, he remembered what Severus Snape had told him when he saw Voldemort look at him _through_ the mirror.

Harry hastily closed the mirror within the trunk and shoved it under his bed. With a sigh, he collapsed face-first onto his pillow. _Why_, he wondered, _did _everything_ always seem to happen to _me With that thought, he drifted into an exhausted sleep.

That night, he had a strange dream of a toddler-James chasing a toddler-Severus, the latter screaming something about how the former's children were going to be Fate's revenge for the pranks of his youth. Around they circled the legs of a giant woman with piercing blue eyes; she merely shook her head and told them to behave or the Big Bad Riddle would come and eat them up as he did all naughty children.

He dreamt, also, of a small boy who cried a river of blood, and of another child with black curls and haunted eyes who ran frantically through dismal streets, past rundown buildings and piles of garbage, all the while crying for his father and mother, who left him abandoned in an ugly new world. The dreams were a change from repeatedly hearing _Kill the spare,_ and seeing the faces of those who died come to rescue him from the tip of Voldemort's wand.

Not exactly a welcome change.

Harry awoke early the next morning just as the sun was rising. He still felt emotionally drained. So Severus Snape, the Terror of the Hogwarts Dungeons, and Harry's uncle, was dead. Surely that meant something important at least. Harry felt the need to do something in commemoration of the man; something like a memorial. He supposed it was the least he could do for someone who had given him actual information of his family's heritage.

He truly had no idea what sort of commemoration that called for, but after a moment of thinking he dug out his Potions homework from beneath the floorboards. For the next three hours, he sat cross-legged on his bed and poured his best effort into the homework. He finished just as Petunia called the others down for breakfast. He stared at the essay and experimental potion recipe.

Harry swelled with pride. It was some of his best Potions work yet without help; he would not be surprised if it _was_ his very best Potions work!

"An F," said a silky voice behind Harry. The pride shrivelled into horror. "That is definitely an F if _I_ ever saw one, and believe me: I have certainly seen many in _my_ career as an instructor."

Harry pressed his lips together, turned to face the voice, squinted, rubbed his eyes, and finally stared in slack-jawed amazement.

"What?" Severus Snape snarled as he floated before Harry. "Haven't you seen a ghost before? Snap your jaw shut before something particularly disgusting flies into it. You look like Neville Longbottom does whenever he succeeded with a potion in class."

Harry was silent for a long moment. Then, "I didn't know your hair was curly!"

Severus grumbled as he whirled around so his back was to Harry. He pressed his arms against the afore-mentioned wild curls of black hair and muttered something about how it was bad for his image. Harry cackled in glee. "Was that why your hair was greasy?" he demanded eagerly. " 'cause it was always so curly and you didn't like it?"

Severus made a sound much like a whistling teakettle. Harry felt his initial surprise and amusement slide away. He slumped over the edge of the bed and knotted his fingers together between his knees.

"I can't imagine you as my uncle," he admitted softly. "Thanks for telling me. You didn't have to."

"It's not as if I expected to come back," Severus grumbled darkly with his back still turned to Harry. "If I had known this was going to happen, I wouldn't have spent so much time writing that blasted letter. Should have known though; ghosts are always those individuals with miserable lives, and my life was miserable, no doubt about it."

Harry winced at the stark harshness in Severus' voice. The ghost's shoulders heaved with a sigh. "However," Severus continued with such a little bit of gentle softness, "living with false illusions of who you are and who you parents were is like lying about your identity. If you aren't who you are, then you're someone else." A note of sadness appeared in Severus' voice. "You deserve to know." They both fell silent as Harry recalled the letter's beginning, where Severus related his earliest memory of standing before a restaurant window.

What did you say to your uncle (who was dead and floated in front of you) when you thought for four years he was a horrible monster out to make your life a miserable hell? "Um, thank you?"

Severus shrugged casually. "Pandora would have expected it of me."

Harry wanted to say he would like to hear more of his relatives, but something nagged in his mind. Some of what Severus had told him did not quite add up to what the others told him. "Did Professor Dumbledore lie?" he asked softly. Severus turned around. One eyebrow cocked in question. "And Remus Lupin? I mean, they said you hated my father and you were probably jealous of him because he was good at Quidditch."

Severus snorted. "Difficult to say," he said finally. "Different facets of truth become distorted when certain things are emphasized to take notice away from others although they are correct in and of themselves."

Harry made a mental note to keep that in mind when he reread Severus' letter.

"I hated to love your father and perhaps I _was_ jealous of him. James Potter was the apple of Pandora's eyes, though that has little to do with Quidditch — I admired your father on the broom, but not once did I envy him of that skill. Although there is one thing that I never meant to tell you but find I must." Severus straightened upward and hovered dangerously over Harry.

Harry flinched at the sight and felt that once more he was back in the dungeons with the Potions Master cruelly pointing out every little thing that went wrong with the potion.

"I was a Death Eater," Severus announced as his eyes narrowed. Harry slowly shrank away. "When Pandora sought and received a recall on my sentence, she did not make it known that I was a spy. For all intent and purposes of the world, I was a Death Eater kept at bay and under control only because of Pandora and Albus' combined threat. Imagine the shock of those in the Ministry of Magic whom Pandora had called upon when they learned that Harry Potter — the very person who vanquished Voldemort – would attend the school where the Potions Master was a former follower of the Dark Lord."

Harry could imagine. He nodded slowly as Severus waited to see if he understood the fine irony of the situation.

"I could hardly be removed from the premises as they presumed the only thing that kept me from attacking my nephew in the first place was Dumbledore. However, it would not do to send you to another school of magic other as this was the school that educated generations and generations of Snapes, then Potters. It was practically your heritage to attend!" Severus began to pace in the room, a preying predator whose menace filled the area like a choking fog. "Given that, all those who worked within Hogwarts and those close members of the family who would be involved with you were immediately notified — though ordered with all sorts of threats involving medieval torture methods would be more accurate — that under no circumstances whatsoever were you to be informed of our relation."

Harry bit back rising anger and bitterness. "So no one could tell me who you were and you couldn't do it either because you were a Death Eater? How would _that_ protect me?"

"For the same reason no one was to inform you that your godfather is Sirius Black. For the same reason I was ordered not to encourage a relationship with you. It was all for the sake of 'protection'."

Harry frowned. "I fail to see how _that_ could've possibly have protected me."

"If I gained your trust, it would have been very easy for me to hurt you. Unguarded, you would have no protection against that which I could do to you — Barty Crouch Junior, who posed as Alistor Moody, is a prime example of what they feared would happen. How would it appear to the Ministry of Magic should a Death Eater befriend you?

"On the other hand, then, too, I was surrounded by children of those Death Eaters who escaped the purging after Voldemort's vanquishing. Their parents knew I was James' brother – how would it appear to the former Death Eaters should their children informed them of James Potter's adopted brother befriending you?"

"Not too well either way, I would imagine."

"Exactly. I was damned if I did and damned if I didn't."

Harry scratched his head. "Well, thank you for telling me that," he said sincerely, unsure of what else to say.

Severus looked put out. "I could do no less."

"But everyone knew Remus from early childhood and he said he never had any real friends until he met my father and Sirius at Hogwarts. He _lied_ to me."

"Remus had a lot to cover up. Dumbledore warned him about your knowing about me, and if he said that Pandora Potter — James' grandmother and your great-grandmother — had covered for him as a child at Dinsmore while he was just a pup, he would have had to explain about Pandora, and there was risk of my being mentioned. Although Remus didn't so much as lie as he, ahem, emphasised a different version of truth." For a moment, Severus' expression of stern impatience shattered into the pain of someone who knew it all. "I imagine Remus did not _completely_ trust James and Sirius. There was usually something distant about him as a child. In his child-like belief that his friends would hate him if they realized he was different, he must have felt they were not _quite_ true friends."

"Until they still cared for him upon learning he was a werewolf."

"Yes. Which happened at Hogwarts."

"I guess that makes sense." Harry stood. He and Severus locked eyes for a moment, and then Harry shrugged. "I guess this is goodbye."

Severus blinked twice. Slowly. "Goodbye?" he echoed. He sounded almost innocent. Harry felt a sudden flash of wariness.

"You did come to say goodbye, didn't you?" he asked. "I mean, you're a ghost and you can't stay here—"

Severus snickered and rubbed his hands together. "I'm going to get my revenge for all those grey hairs you gave me! I have come to haunt you!"

Harry stared at his ghost of an uncle. "But… You can't do that!"

"Odd; that's what your godfather said too."

"You're haunting Sirius _too_?!"

"On holidays," Severus replied casually, as if Harry was not standing before him and beginning to hyperventilate in shock. He knitted his fingers before himself and pressed them against his collarbone. "Which reminds me, July 4th is tomorrow and that's supposed to be a national holiday for the USA. I don't see why I have to limit myself to just the UK's holidays."

Harry's legs gave out from beneath him in his shock. He collapsed on the bed and stared at Severus for a long moment as the ghost roamed the room and poked at things, mumbling about how it wasn't much, but he could live with it — figuratively speaking, of course, since no pun was intended. "Wait." Harry pressed his hands to his head and tried desperately to think. "You said you were going to haunt _Lucius Malfoy_ when you died!"

Snape didn't even look up from his explorations. "I'm doing him every other weekend."

"What about Voldemort? Why not haunt him too since he killed you and destroyed the family and all?"

"He's the other every other weekend. Really, if I have to spend my afterlife on _this_ plane of existence, I fully expect to have some fun for the first few hundred years or so."

Harry rubbed his eyes behind his glasses. "So you're haunting me all the time except on holidays and weekends?"

"Well, haunting _you_, to be precise, is the operative word."

"What?"

Severus ignored Harry as he floated down through the floor. There was a sudden scream from the kitchen below, and Severus' head appeared as he stuck it up through the floorboards.

"If you want me," he said solemnly, "I shall be haunting your lovely Aunt Petunia's toaster oven." He disappeared again. There was another scream, and then a clatter.

"MUUUUUUUUMMMM! THE TOASTER'S ATTACKING ME AGAIN!"

"SEVERUS!" Petunia screamed. Harry stared at the spot where Severus had disappeared. A moment passed. Another scream was heard. "YOU STOP THIS AT ONCE, YOU ROTTON BASTARD!"

"HARRY!" It was Uncle Vernon this time. "IF THIS IS ANOTHER ONE OF YOUR YOU-KNOW — AHHH!"

Harry listened to the commotion below and shook his head at the chaos. A moment passed as a smile flitted across his face, and then, for the first time since Cedric Diggory's death, he laughed.

* * *

In the far-off distance, beside a little cottage some few hundred meters from the burnt ruins of Dinsmore, Remus Lupin watched Sirius as amusement flickered in his gold-rimmed eyes. Sirius stopped chanting and waving his wand to glare at Remus. "You aren't helping!" he accused angrily. "You know I am trying to get these barriers up before he comes back!"

"Why should I? Severus has no reason to haunt me."

"Oh be quiet then. I'm trying to concentrate." Sirius squinted and waved his wand about in a circle. The shed behind the cottage exploded. "Drat. I'll get it right one of these times."

Remus watched Sirius once again launch into the intricate hand motions that were involved with the charm. After the tree behind them caught fire, he stood up. "If you need me for something besides the anti-ghost charm, I shall be roaming the catacombs beneath Dinsmore."

Sirius said nothing, and in the forest a tree crumbled into dust.

* * *

**author's notes:**  
_Adventures of Severus the Ghost and Harry Potter the Boy Who Lived continues in _Pandora's Box. 

The Psychological aspects of the Pegasus (positive) is one with the natural ability to change evil into good and (negative) one who feels superior to others because of his or her knowledge. Magical attributes most attested to the Pegasus include: changing evil into good, learning astral travel, poetic inspiration, visiting with deceased souls, fame, eloquence, and learning great secrets of life and magic - all of which will be seen in the sequel. This little tidbit is for anyone who is curious as to why the Pegasus is the seal of the Snape family.


	15. That Which James Witnessed 1 of 3

INNOCENCE SUNDERED 

It was a beautiful day in the middle of July, with the sun high in the sky and birds dancing in the limbs of the trees that surrounded the small house at Godric's Hollow. Anne Sullivan-Potter, her light brown hair pulled back into a sloppy bun, stood on the small stoop at the back door with a broom. James, three years old and precarious as only hyper little boys could be, watched the swishing strings of his mother's apron. Her back was turned and her attention was centred on her tasks. Perfect!

James silently clambered atop of one of the kitchen chairs and studied the small platter of cooling cookies. He tentatively reached for one, his eyes trained upon Anne's back as she hummed a merry tune and worked the bristles of the broom through a clogged crack.

When his hand enclosed around a still-warm cookie, James slid off the kitchen chair. He dived beneath the kitchen table to feast upon his ill-acquired goods. Only the slight movement of the floor-trailing tablecloth betrayed his position.

He stuffed his mouth with one bite and savoured the flavour as a few crumbs spilled down his shirt. The air beneath the table was comfortably warm, and above him, in the second story of the house, he could hear the creak of shifting timbers as his father roamed. James also heard a soft footfall and the swish of skirts before the kitchen door was closed. He paused a moment in his chewing and lifted the corner of the tablecloth, pressing his cheek against the tiling floor. He saw Anne's bare feet walk softly past to put away the broom, and then depart the kitchen.

James breathed a sigh of relief having not been caught, and finished the rest of his cookie. As he carefully brushed away any sign of deviance from his clothes, the tablecloth moved. He whirled around to see little Jonathan slip under the tablecloth and regard him with a finger pressed against his lips.

"Go 'way!" James whispered loudly, trying to push him out of his special hiding place. This was his – Jonathon didn't belong here! Jonathan whimpered and his lower lip trembled. Belatedly, James realized his mistake. If he was mean to Jonathan, then Jonathan would cry and Mum would discover them.

"Wait!" James threw his arms around his brother's shoulders and pulled him under. "I changed my mind. Don't cry! You can stay with me!" Jonathan sniffed and relaxed into James' embrace.

"I'm scared," Jonathan whispered.

"Why?"

"Dunno." He whimpered softly and pressed one nervous finger to his lower lip. "I see blood," he said with his eyes wide with horror. "Blood everywhere." He shivered with fright. James' arms tightened around him. For some inexplicable reason, Jonathan woken screaming from nightmares for the past three nights. He said it flowed like a river and pieces of something bobbed about like bath toys. He moaned and cried and screamed, because James cried the tears that formed the river of blood.

"Grandmother's coming," James said with the sincere belief in someone who knew would make things right. "She'll make it stop." That was what Oliver and Anne had told Jonathan to calm their hysterical two year old. No one knew what could have caused such horrific visions to emerge in the slumbering dreams of a child, but no one was going to discern it as nothing.

Oliver knew the family history; it was not hard to believe that his youngest son could be a Wanderer, and since Pandora was the only one familiar enough with the Mirror of Rebounds to understand its use and symbolism, she would visit and speak to Jonathon.

Jonathan sniffled, then stopped. He pulled away from James and sniffed again more deeply. He glared at James, who contrived to look shamed. "I wanna cookie!" Jonathan said loudly.

"Shhh!" James flinched and waited to see if Anne had heard them. Jonathan dropped his voice to a loud whisper.

"I wanna cookie or I'm tellin' Mum!"

"Fine, I'll get a cookie for you!" James huffed with indignation before lifting one corner of the tablecloth and peering around. Anne was nowhere near, so he crept out from beneath the table and onto the chair again. Jonathan followed closely at his heels, warily watching for their mother.

When James was on top of the chair and reaching for the platter, they both heard the kitchen door swing open. He snatched his hand back warily, caught in the act of absconding with forbidden food. They expected it to be their grandmother — she would sneak them cookies! — but it was not Pandora. It was instead a man they had never before seen. He was tall and dark, his facial muscles twisted and bunched together, and his eyes were filled with a terrible malevolence. James pressed back and Jonathon, crying softly in surprise and fear, hid behind the chair.

The man's power filled the kitchen like a tidal wave and crushed any good cheer that remained after his startling appearance. Clothed in black, the man was like a sinister shadow from depths of madness that could only exist in the realm of nightmares. His eyes seemed dead and lifeless, unless the cunning and the knowing in them constituted as life.

"What are you doing?" His voice was rich and melodious, a sharp contrast of beauty compared to his ugliness. Jonathon slowly drew away from James, a tentative smile on his face, and James suddenly thought of screaming.

"We're getting cookies!" Jonathan declared shyly. The man smiled. The twisted features became smooth for a moment, and the man seemed very handsome and kind then.

"The ones on the table?" he asked amusedly. "Are you allowed?" Jonathan shrunk down and shook his head no; the man's smile broadened. "I thought not," he said softly. He forward and rested his fingertips lightly beside the platter of cookies. He regarded the boys, and then picked up a single cookie. "Which one should I give this to?"

Jonathan watched the waving cookie eagerly until James reached down and viciously pinched him. The man's eyebrow twitched as James squared his shoulder and stared defiantly at him.

"Go 'way!" James said firmly with one tiny finger pointed at the door. The man sniggered and the human likeliness in his features disappeared.

"I believe I may like you," he said softly. "Such a lovely spirit. It soars like a bird, free and majestic in the sky." He smiled viciously. Jonathan pulled away from the twisted features with a soft cry and grabbed a fistful of James' trousers. "It would be a wonder," the dark man whispered as he bent over, "to break," one hand reached out to touch the line of Jonathan's neck, "your wings." His eyes peered into the depths of James' heart and soul. "You. Yes, you I think I would prefer continuing the Snape lineage. The one I need to assure Pandora's neutral stance. "

James jumped as the man's dark blue eyes flashed and burned a bright crimson. With a smile that could only be described as vicious and animalistic, the man stabbed his hand forward. Jonathan barely managed a squeak before his head, jaggedly torn free from his body, flew across the room and thumped against one of the cabinet doors. Blood spurted from his serrated neck and drenched James as if a bucket of it had been tipped over his head. It washed over James' stunned features and the body sagged against him before dropping to the floor.

The world suddenly narrowed down to two things: The burning bright crimson red eyes that filled his entire vision, and the blossoming pain in the middle of his chest.

From the other side of the house, James dimly heard his mother. "James? Jon? What are you two up to?"

"Do not say a word," the man hissed as he pressed one bloody finger to James' lips, the touch sucking away warmth and leaving only the feel of frost. James stared into the crimson depths and saw his reflection. He watched as the pupils curved slowly from circles to slits. "Do _not_ make a sound." James heard his mother enter the kitchen at that moment, and slowly turned to face her.

"Boys? What are you do—" Her annoyance was silenced as Jonathan's head, propelled by an unseen force, rolled across the floor and bumped against her ankles. She stared wordlessly, too shocked to even breathe. Lifting her horror-filled eyes from Jonathan's head, she saw the dark man bent over her other son; saw James bathed from head to toe in blood. Trembling, she withdrew her wand from her apron pocket and rushed forward with her wand upraised and a scream ripping from her throat.

"Mmm." The man shook his head and lazily waved his hand. The cutlery set that had been a wedding gift to Oliver and Anne from Anastasia and Edwina rattled in its little shelf before flinging free through the air. Anne stiffened and stopped up short, her scream dying as a large knife buried itself to the hilt beneath her breast bone with a fleshy thud of sound. She tripped backwards as another knife sunk just above the first. In slow motion, she fell against the doorjamb, the hand in which she gripped her wand slowly sagging downward. One by one, a dozen knives slammed into her chest, throat, and stomach. Spots of red surrounded each polished hilt and the wand dropped onto the kitchen floor with a small tap of sound. Blood burbled from her mouth as she tried to speak to James. Her eyes glazed as her legs slid free from beneath.

The knives violently ripped free from her body. Side to side the knives rent across her flesh and tore it to ribbons. Hurled by an invisible force, the knives clattered against the walls and fell motionlessly and bloodstained to the otherwise pristine tile. Anne flopped forward, head dropping between her knees into a quickly-widening pool of blood.

James did not so much as gasp, unable to make a sound as the man commanded, all too aware of the crushing pain in his chest. James felt light-headed from the lack of oxygen, as if all of this was some faraway dream. In the living room entrance, cradling Jonathan's head gently in his arms, was Oliver. He had come running at the sound of his wife's scream, but stood silent and docile as James. A single tear rolled down his face.

The dark man cocked his head to the side. "Why do you not fight me?" he asked curiously as he dropped a hand onto James' head. "Your lovely wife did." Another tear rolled down Oliver's face. There was one thing that set Oliver apart from the rest of his family, and this was his complete lack of presence. He could not command the attention of anyone in a room, much less the attention of someone as arrogant as the man once known as Tom Riddle. Still, if for nothing else but what a heart-wrenching sight he made as he gently hugged his youngest son close to his heart, Oliver commanded.

"What good would it do?" Oliver asked softly. "You would kill me regardless of whether I fight or not and I'm too weak to harm you anyway." His gaze settled upon Anne's still body. More tears rolled down his face. "I know I shame my family with this pacifism. But when I see this, I remember blood at the top of stairs; my father's blood without a body." Oliver lifted one hand and stared at the blood smeared across it. "I hope you're happy," he said, "to have achieved your goal here." His expression was resigned, but in the quiet depths of his eyes smouldered a soul-consuming hatred. "Because you will never succeed. You have already lost; you lost the moment you killed my father."

"Shut up," the dark man said evenly and waved his hand once more. The invisible force from earlier lifted the cutlery upward, whipped it around in a half circle, and sunk into Oliver's back. He shuddered and gasped as several knife points protruded from his chest. He swayed unsteadily but clung to his dignity.

"That was the first step down the dark road," he whispered with a slurred voice, "and now you've been dragged so down far it you will never come back. You've lost anything that would ever truly mean anything to you." A dark drop of blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth and down his chin. "In the end, you'll only receive what you create."

"Shut. Up." The knives split open Oliver's ribcage as they tore through. Oliver collapsed to his knees, one arm still stubbornly clinging to Jonathon. "A pox upon you," Oliver whispered, raising one bloody hand and pointing two level fingers at the dark man. _"May the blood you spill be the very blood that destroys you. _So this curse is created from innocent blood, and so the innocent blood curses you!" Oliver flung his bloody hand wide. Drops of blood flew about and a single drop landed on the back of the dark man's hand. It hissed as it ate through the dark man's skin like acid.

"_Shut! Up!"_ The knives gutted Oliver. He flinched and gasped as his intestines spilled across the floor. The same hand that had flung his blood wide, red and trembling with pain, reached out to James.

"I love you," he whispered before his throat was slashed end-to-end. His arms dropped loosely to his sides and Jonathan's head rolled free. Oliver sighed once as his head tilted back, and he died upon his knees before Voldemort. But the Snape pride ran strong in his veins where blood should have even if he did not possess presence, so he expired with his head held high and his eyes open.

James remained silent through it all. With the silence ringing in his ears and the pain crushing his chest, the dark man drew close and cradled James close. "Come," the dark man as he stooped to wrap one strong hand around the leg of Jonathan's decapitated body. "This," he smiled coldly, "is no place for a child."

It was to this massacre that Pandora came only half an hour later. The stench of death was in the air, but not like that of the scent of blood, or even the underlying stink of the Dark Arts. She stared at the mindless slaughter before her, the basket of wooden play blocks and homemade candies falling free from her suddenly loose grip.

"No."

Blood was splattered on the furniture and walls, and the tiled floor was completely hidden beneath the mini lake of blood.

"Oh gods, no. No no no not again."

Pandora waded across the blood to her son and gingerly stepped around his intestines. His eyes stared upward at the ceiling. "Oliver? My love?" Pandora reached out to smooth her hands over his eyes. Rigor mortis had not fully set in, and she closed his eyes for the last time.

Pandora forced herself to retain some calm as she searched for survivors. Jonathan's head, a look of pain and fear still frozen upon his face, she found beneath the kitchen table, and it was the sight of this that made Pandora burst into tears. She roamed through the house, futilely searching for James. She searched in closets, beneath the beds, under furniture, and in the various nooks and crannies that she knew he liked to hide.

Unable to find anything of James, unable to stand the sight of her only son kneeling with his entrails spread before him and Anne laying face-down in the lake of blood, Pandora Apparated to her twin daughters' flat as she still desperately clutched Jonathan's head close.

Severus Snape would later describe the damage done to Anastasia and Edwina as being torn from limb to limb as if attacked by wild animals. It was too polite a description.

At Godric's Hollow, Pandora cried.

At the twins' flat, she screamed as Edwina, her body torn in half at the waist and one arm ending at a bloody stump just above the elbow, hair ripped away in bloody clumps, dragged a bloody trail across the floor to hopelessly clutch at Pandora's legs and _beg_ her mother for death.

The dark man and James stayed together. "Not a word," he said often, "not a sound." He kept James and Jonathon together in the same dark room where only a large chair stood. Jonathan's body had been reverently laid across the threshold of before the large chair while James was gently held in the dark man's lap.

In those two days, neither moved from the chair and James stank of blood, faeces, and urine. His chest ached painfully. The scene of his family's gruesome slaughter played and replayed not just in James' mind but also in the shadows. The twisted bodies, the flashing cutlery, the blood splashing everywhere. He also saw Pandora backed into a corner, screaming hysterically as pieces of Edwina and Anastasia surrounded her, clinging and begging for a release from their cursed imprisonment of ruined flesh.

Mixed in with the shadows was a vision of bloody tears that formed a river.

In those two days, the dark man occasionally recited old legends, myths, and even a few fairy tales to James. His voice was soothing and hypnotic, too kind and too smooth to belong to someone capable of creating such horror. He petted James' wild hair and gently ran his hands comfortingly along the small length of the boy's back as he spoke.

On noon the second day, the dark man laid Jonathon's body in a fire and then hand-fed sizzling chunks of roasted flesh to James. He told James to devour his heritage, swallow his kindred, become one with his brother so they might both know immortality.

James did as he was told, and something within withered as he consumed Jonathon, as he inhaled his brother's floating ashes.

The pain in his chest magnified.

When dusk settled that second day, the dark man took James and brought them to the edge of a park. In the distance, James heard children's shrieks of laughter, but he buried himself deep within his own mind. The dark man strode to a bench where a woman, hair gone from raven-black to steel-grey in less than forty-eight hours, hunched in soul-deep misery.

"Pandora," he said softly. The woman stirred. The dark man smiled sweetly at her as he rested his cheek on the top of James' wild black hair. He brushed the back of his hand across James' face, sweeping away crusted blood. "This is the only remaining descendant of both the Potter name and the Snape bloodline. Should you ever wage a direct assault or lead an attack against me, I shall play with him as I play with nothing else, and he shall be as immortal as myself, never to die and escape that which I can inflict upon him. The Potter name will cease to exist, and the Snape blood will never flow in another's veins."

He gently held James out to Pandora, and she snatched him to her breast. With a low laugh, the dark man stooped low and cupped her face with his hands. "Pandora," he said, bending low so his lips brushed against the delicate shell of her ear, "withdraw and declare yourself neutral." She trembled at his touch, like a wild animal tensing for attack. "Not doing so will heighten the risk of destroying my sanctuary for James. Once he is gone, you will have _nothing_ left. After what had taken place two days ago, the world will respect your decision." He planted a mocking kiss on the corner of her quivering lips.

He released her and Disapparated. Pandora sobbed and pressed her face to James' hair, and James would not respond. _Not a word, not a sound_, the dark man had told him, so he obeyed.

Knowing well that Tom Riddle said what he meant and meant what he said, Pandora withdrew and publicly announced that she would _never_ fight against Voldemort. All who witnessed saw her cradling close her one immediate family member, still drenched in Jonathan's dried blood. It was the rude shock that awoke the entire wizarding world to the knowledge that another Dark Lord had risen so soon after Grindelwald, another who had been ruthlessly vicious.

For many years though, Voldemort remained somewhat inactive, and those who shunned wickedness by believing that such horribleness was best ignored soon forgot what happened.

The dark man had told James to be quiet. For a year and a half afterwards, James obeyed. His chest ached always, and no matter how far back into his mind he retreated, no matter how hard he tried to separate from those memories, he saw his parents die. He saw his aunts suffer. The taste of his brother's flesh remained bitterly on his tongue, tainting everything Pandora cooked.

Pandora pleaded and cajoled, prayed and cried for a response, any reaction or sign of life, and only after months of her tears did James finally realize that he would feel less alone if he emerged from his shell. This brought smiles to his grandmother's face, so he vowed to never make her cry again.

For Pandora, he began to _live_.

In that time, he slept in Pandora's bed. He never whimpered or cried out when the pain became too much, but only rubbed his head against Pandora's breast and buried himself further into her arms. He did not know what the dark man would do if James made a sound, but James could not stand the thought or idea of losing his grandmother in the same manner as he had the rest of his family. For all intents and purposes, she was the only person left in the world for him.

It was Sirius Black who let him believe otherwise. James was nearly six years old then, and had spent half of his life in silence.

The Black family had stopped by at Dinsmore to thank Pandora for allowing them to move into the woodcutter's cottage when they had sought sanctuary from the poisoned horror that was slowly seeping through the wizarding world. As the parents spoke with Pandora, Sirius, young upstart of a ruffian that he was (or, at least, would one day be), wandered off to explore. He met James, who covertly watched Pandora in the shadows of the drapes.

Sirius watched James as one finger pressed against the corner of his mouth watch Pandora. Finally, Sirius said, "I'm Sirius Black."

James' eyes flickered over at the boy, and then back to Pandora, whose attention was for the adults. Sirius studied Pandora for a moment, then decided she wasn't playmate material. "She's nice," he said finally, because something had to be said. James looked at Sirius. He studied him, and then nodded once.

"Can't you talk?"

James stared at Sirius. Sirius stared at James. Minutes ticked by. Sirius once again reached out to this silent boy.

"Well, we came here 'cause Mum and Dad said that Missus Potter is the only person that You-Know-Who isn't going to bother." James frowned thoughtfully. He could hear Mrs Black thanking his grandmother for protection. Did this mean that the dark man, this Voldemort, the person his grandmother called Tom Riddle, was not going to hurt Pandora if he spoke?

"She's very strong," Sirius added. "Mum and Dad said You-Know-Who wouldn't never attack Missus Potter because she's strong."

James felt a stirring deep in his chest. For the first time since his parents died, the pain in his chest eased, and he felt himself swelling with pride to know that this person, the one everyone said was so strong, belonged to _him_. And he would protect her, as a man was to protect his woman. "Of course she is," James said finally, voice almost too soft to hear. "She _is_ my grandmother."

"You can speak. Good; come play with me now."

Pandora attested James' "awakening" from the frightfully silent, haunted little boy that he was after his family's deaths to Sirius Black. That day, she saw her grandson laugh for the first time in a year and a half as he and Sirius played together in front of Francis' portrait and Francis refereed their game. It was not a truly complete recovery though. James would not sleep unless she was home, even if she was gone for two days and left him in the care of the Blacks. Until his sixth birthday, he would only sleep with Pandora, curled against her side as she had one arm protectively wrapped around him.

Pandora could not discipline James. She could not find it in herself to punish him or speak harshly, lest it trigger whatever Voldemort had done. She allowed him to run free and wild, rambunctious in behaviour and naturally mischievous to the point of being obnoxious. He was alive and that was how she wanted it. James loved her dearly for such leniency.

Just a few months after the Blacks arrived, Remus Lupin came to Dinsmore with his family. Their original purpose was to seek Pandora's help for a cure. She was, after all, a master in the Defence of the Dark Arts, and Francis' name and genius was still remembered by scholars such as Remus' father, Favian Lupin. Pandora could not help and, loathed as she did to send them away without help, she allowed them to stay near Dinsmore and sealed off some passages of Dinsmore's catacombs for Remus' use during the full moon.

Remus and James quickly became playmates. Little more than a year passed after that, until the fateful day when Pandora took James to Diagon Alley for supplies. It was the second time James had been surrounded by so many people, but he went forth bravely with Remus and Sirius at his side, and he found that he enjoyed being surrounded by strangers and so much _life_.

There they met a little gutter rat, dark and dirty, underfed and naturally suspicious, who had been given the key of entry to Diagon Alley through Pandora's explanation to James.

James had not meant to insult the gutter rat. When he helped other boy to his feet and saw the gutter rat's eyes, it triggered a memory. Even if the gutter rat's black hair was matted and tangled, it hinted of curls. Even if the gutter rat's eyes were as black as his hair and they held a wary fear, James saw shattered innocence. As different as the gutter rat was, James was stunned speechless at the sudden reflection of Jonathon.

Perhaps it was the fear in the gutter rat's eyes, or perhaps it was his own dawning horror of realization. But for whatever reason, James saw Jonathan and the memory of little Jonathan's body sliding down against his own vividly played in his mind. In that moment, he felt blood wash over his features, the crushing pain in his chest, cooked flesh pressed into his mouth and ashes filling his lungs. He couldn't help but rub his hands against his clothes to feel for the warm stickiness of blood.

The little gutter rat fled, deeply hurt and offended though James could never say why. That, James supposed, was the last he would ever see of him anyway, but not so. A month later, late at night, James lay awake for Pandora to come home. He heard her arrive, but when she didn't come directly to bed as she always had before, he went searching for her.

They had company.

The gutter rat was _so_ sullen and suspicious. How else was James to react but demand to know why he was here? Upon learning that Pandora had every intention of keeping him, James found he was not surprised. It made sense then, why this little gutter rat, now known as Severus, had reminded him of Jonathan. Surely Pandora saw Jonathon in the gutter rat as well.

That must have been why she brought him home.

Perhaps their meeting at Diagon Alley was meant to be; foreordained, if one cared to be philosophical of the matter. James was no stranger to the Snape family heritage. He knew about the Mirror of Rebounds, though he hated it. In his child's mind, he blamed the Mirror of Rebounds for his family's deaths. The Mirror had shown Jonathan of James crying a river of blood. If the Mirror of Rebounds had not shown Jonathan this dream, then his parents and Jonathon would surely be alive.

But for all of the boy's similarities to Jonathon, it was hard for James to accept this person.

James found it difficult to love this strange, black-eyed child who did not trust anyone but Pandora and portraits of dead persons. He found it harder to trust Severus, because Severus looked, moved, and acted as if the whole world was going to hurt him. He had a prickly bearing and a bitter wall hoisted between his heart and the rest of the world.

James tried, though. He tried, even when his chest ached and he tasted Jonathon in his mouth. By the time he and Severus were eight, an understanding seemed to have developed between them. Yes, James was troublesome and carefree while Severus was distant and serious, but they decided that what would be, would just have to be. James could be troublesome and carefree, but Severus had taken upon himself to make sure that James stayed out of trouble. He rarely succeeded, but at least the intent and attempts were there.

Their roles had switched. No longer was Severus, with his great mistrust and wariness towards gifts of kindness, like James' dead little brother. Suddenly, Severus was the older brother, the one who would try to keep the little ones from harm or, barring that, bandage the hurts and pains. How odd, because James had always before attested Severus to being the little brother, the one who had to be shown that the world was not what he thought it to be, yet still needed to be sheltered and protected.

It was then that James knew he loved Severus.

And yet . . .

And yet, for all their switched roles, James found he could not confide in Severus. Why? Why did he have such difficulty telling Severus things that he effortlessly told Sirius and Remus without worrying? Was it because Severus had a dark air about him that told of a horrid lifetime, of abandonment, of pain and abuse? Was it because Severus couldn't share or accept trust? The way Severus watched with his black eyes, the way he crossed his arms before himself or hid in the dark shadows of Dinsmore, the way he would flinch when a grownup besides Pandora touched him, testified to a lifetime of survival that would never have succeeded with faith or hope.

Perhaps because Severus would not extend trust to him, let alone anyone but the woman who gave him a new life, James could not trust Severus in return. Or perhaps the likeliest reason was, even if James could consider Severus the older brother, he would always remember being washed in blood, crushed in pain, and fed upon his brother.

For all of that, it never failed to amaze James _what_ he could trust Severus with (his life), or to help him with little things. But secrets? He knew Severus could keep them, but he could not find it within himself to speak them. Perhaps because they trusted one another enough not to test the trust from time to time. It seemed to James that he and Severus did not need to do things to prove one another's dependability.

It just was. What lay between them existed like the sky existed, like Pandora's love existed, like _they_ existed.

When they met Lily for the first time and played together in the sandbox, James and Severus trusted one another enough to lead each other on with insults, jests, and jibes without taking them to heart. On that level, James and Severus were not at all serious with one another, though on all other levels they treated each other with a high degree of sombreness. It was difficult for James to maintain such quiet dignity, so when Sirius would suggest a prank to be pulled on Severus, James readily agreed and went along.

After all, as much as he loved his brother, James felt that Severus truly needed to lighten up. If James, who had seen ugliness wrought upon the most precious people in his life at such a tender age, could laugh later in life, then so could Severus. As far as the pranks went, Severus tolerated them with a wounded air. He never tattled any more than he seemed to dwell on them, which led James to believe that Severus was willing to forget about such matters as soon as he finished snarling and lecturing James and Sirius.

It was a joyous time for James. He had family once more – a sometimes younger and sometimes older brother, and a grandmother who was also his mother – and wonderful friends. He actually looked forward to going to Hogwarts. While Pandora would not be there, it was an adventure waiting to take place, and Severus, Sirius, Remus, and Lily (all, of course, whom James considered part of his family) would all be there as well. James did not care which House he wound up in as long as he was together with everyone. His life was beginning anew, heading in a radically new direction.


	16. That Which James Witnessed 2 of 3

DEATH'S MOCKERY  


His Sorting should have been a wonderful time. He should have been standing on the threshold with a bright, eager smile plastered to his face.

However, that was not to be.

James felt something was wrong the moment he saw Cousin Lucius look at Severus down the length of the boat they sat alone with Peter, but surely Cousin Lucius wouldn't do anything. Distracted by one of Lily's questions, he never realized exactly how both Peter and Severus wound up falling out of the boat. The first thing he knew was a gigantic splash occurring to his left, and Lucius' horrible laughter. James whirled around to see one of Severus' hands desperately reaching upward out of the dark water before disappearing in the froth created by Peter's frantic thrashing.

James knew that Severus was in a world of trouble. He lunged over the side, ignoring Remus' cry of, "James! No!" and dived headlong into the frigid waters. He splashed ungracefully over to Peter. Cries and yells rang across the lake's surface as others' attention was attracted.

"Sev? Sev?" He grabbed the side of the small boat Lucius was still, chortling with smug amusement, and flung an arm around Peter. He ignored the other boy's cries of fright as he pulled the thrashing body over to the side of the boat. "Sev? Where are you?" Cold fright filled James. It settled in the centre of his chest only to become a crushing agony that threatened to sink _him_. When Peter clung tightly to the boat's side, James released him and ducked under the water. He stared into the bleak depths, his vision blurry and distorted. He thought he saw a wave of bubbles and foam below. James swam to the surface, took a deep breath to plunge down again, and was yanked out of the water by one large, meaty hand.

"Let me go!" James struggled uselessly against Hagrid's grip. "My brother is there! He can't swim!"

"Shh." Hagrid opened his coat and tucked it around James' form. "Th' Merpeople'll get him right out."

"No! I've got to help him!" James cried and struggled against Hagrid in vain. His eyes lingered on the spot he had last seen Severus go under.

"There be nothin' we kin do," Hagrid said. "If ye stay in the water, ye'll get sick. We'll go right to Dumbledore and tell him what happened. He'll get young Severus."

James sagged against Hagrid's arm. He didn't notice the tears of pain and loss. He could not explain how the ball of icy agony in his chest choked him, how pain lanced down his spine with every breath. When they drew inside of the cavern and McGonagall came down the staircase to greet the new first years, Hagrid told her of how one of the students fell out of the boat and went under the water.

As Hagrid rushed onward to inform Dumbledore, McGonagall cast drying charms upon both James and Peter. She questioned them and Lucius of what happened. James refused to answer her questions. James wanted to scream his frustration at how people refused to bother themselves with the important details.

"My brother is the lake! We can't leave him there!" James pointed behind him, not knowing why no one could figure out where to go from that.

McGonagall gazed at James with understanding eyes. "We _will_ help him," she said. "If he fell in the lake, he would attract the attention of the Merpeople. They do not allow humans to stay in the lake, and will take him to the shoreline immediately. Professor Dumbledore is being fetched right this moment and we will help young Mr. Snape. He _will_ be all right."

If Severus was to be all right, then why did James hurt so much? Dumbledore, upon learning what happened, announced the Sorting and moved off with Hagrid to the lake's shore. McGonagall continued with the ceremony as if nothing happened. James' tears stopped when he saw Lucius Malfoy sitting at the Slytherin table. The worry and frustration evaporated beneath the hot tidal wave of anger that swept through him as he saw his cousin smirking. Slytherin? How could someone as spiteful, as vicious, as atrocious as Lucius be in Pandora's House? How could he so be cheerful Severus was probably swimming with the fishes right now, and _it was all Lucius' fault!_

The rage still burned in his heart as he stared daggers at where Lucius was seated.

"Potter, James? ... Potter, James … Potter, James come forth!"

One of the children behind him still waiting to be Sorted poked James in the back. He jumped guiltily, and realized it was his turn. He hurried to the stool and sat down. From his vantage point, he could see the six faces of the remaining first years, and the separate dining tables of the Houses. He felt a heavy weight settle upon his head and a voice spoke into his mind.

"Hmmmm... It seems you are more worried about your brother's fate than what House you're destined. I see courage in you; dollops of bravery! All of this stems from such tragedy… Tell me, are you aware of why?"

James sighed. "Don't make me say why," he said softly, remembering spilt blood and his father's voice rising to curse Voldemort. He felt the sensation of blood splashing across his face and soaking through his clothes, of Jonathon's flesh in his mouth and the smoke in his nostrils. Remembering such also reminded him of Severus. "Come on, hurry up. Sev's in trouble."

"And a severe lack of patience! Ah, I very much like your spirit. You would make an excellent Gryffindor, you know. Just for the record, there were very few instances when someone with Snape blood has ever gone into a House other than Ravenclaw or Slytherin. Well, just one instant actually, poor sod. No matter though! We shall make it two!"

With that, the Sorting Hat declared Gryffindor.

James refused to remain still even then. As soon as the Sorting Hat had been removed from his head, he hurried to the Gryffindor table to tell Frank of what happened. He fidgeted nervously in his chair, welcomed comforting hugs from Sirius, Remus, and Lily, and even managed a few kind words to Peter, who was sort of responsible for what happened.

Peter, he found, was sorry for whatever part he played.

"I d-didn't mean to," Peter stuttered softly as large tears rolled down his cheeks, "He was nice to me, and I-I didn't w-want to hurt him in any w-way." He then squeaked and hid beneath the table when Lucius turned around at the Slytherin Table and smiled wickedly towards them. Sirius bristled in defence.

Anyone who could be sweet enough to be worried about Severus (James withstanding since they were _brothers_ and brothers didn't count), and knowing _he_ was the reason why Severus was not to be found was someone who needed to be taken care of. Lily questioned this twisted logic, but Sirius paid no heed as he wrapped one arm around Peter and comforted him.

With that loose end addressed, James sought Dumbledore. He found the old headmaster in the hall, looking worried as he spoke in hushed tones to McGonagall. Regardless of how rude it was to interrupt people's conversations, James hurried over to them and yanked on their robes. The pain in his chest swelled and grew until he felt it in the very tips of his toes.

"You can't find him, can you?" Did he lose another brother? Did James lose the only person in his life whose cold confidence and air of wilful ambition seemed to lend James strength? Why must it always come to this?

Dumbledore stooped so James wouldn't crane his neck. "Mr. Snape is not to be found amongst the Merpeople. They said he was there, but no longer."

"You've lost him forever!"

McGonagall frowned sternly. "Forever is a long time, Mr. Potter."

"But he's gone." The tears were coming faster. "I'll never see him again, just like Mum and Dad and Jonathan."

Dumbledore and McGonagall exchanged loaded glances. "Now, Mr. Potter, you've already given up faith on your brother. That is disappointing. You always need to have faith in him, because I am quite sure that Mr. Snape is capable of taking care of himself."

"But he can't swim! How was that taking care of himself?" James drew away from Dumbledore. He took several deep breaths, and then looked at the two adults. "Where's Grandmother?" he asked. "She'll get Severus. She will, I know she will!"

Again, Dumbledore and McGonagall exchanged worried glances. "We will inform her," Dumbledore said.

"Now. She'll come." James looked at them, his face damp with tears. "She's strong." He rubbed his eyes irritably. McGonagall held her hand out to him.

"Come," she said. James rubbed his eyes and accepted her hand. He almost ran to keep up with the swift strides of the two teachers. The gargoyle in charge of guarding Dumbledore's quarters scrambled quickly out of their way. It watched them with wide eyes.

Dumbledore marched directly over to the fireplace where a single log sat. He pulled a stool close and settled himself comfortably upon it. He pointed his wand at the wood. _"Fervens."_ Fire leapt upward, the orange and red flames licking suddenly at the log. McGonagall dropped James' hand and grabbed a tin from off the fireplace's ledge. She pried the lid off and offered the contents to Dumbledore. He took a handful of the white powder within it and threw it into the fire. The flames turned a cold blue and the heat that had been drifting from it disappeared.

"Pandora Potter; Dinsmore," Dumbledore said in a clear voice. The flames lowered, and then flared up. A woman's voice drifted through the flames.

"I'm coming, I'm coming." Dumbledore stroked his beard as the sound of footsteps floated from the fire. James perked up at the familiar sound of his grandmother's leather-bottomed slippers padding against worn wooden floors. Pandora's face appeared in the fire.

"Yes? Oh, good evening Alb — James?" Pandora's eyes grew wide at the sight of James' tear-streaked face. "What's the matter? What's wrong?" She glanced quickly around the room. "Severus—"

"—is missing," said Dumbledore. Pandora blanched and he held his arms out to ward off any oncoming questions. "He fell out of one of the boats he was riding in."

"Severus can't swim—"

"Well…" Dumbledore sighed. "I will tell you the matter directly and bluntly: your grandson fell out of the boat and was shoved under water beyond help. Hagrid brought the matter directly to me, and I immediately sought out the Merpeople. They said he had been in the water, but is no longer there."

"Where did he go?"

"The best I can conclude is that his innate magic lifted him from the water. We don't know if this is so as of yet or where he might have gone, but there is a search party being organized."

Pandora closed her eyes momentarily. They opened and focused upon James. "Are you all right, sweetie?" she asked him. James sniffed.

"I'm worried about Sev." He looked at her hopefully. "You have to help him. Won't you?"

"Professor Dumbledore is doing the best he can. I can't be of any help from here."

"No, I want you to help. You have to come save Severus. Please."

Pandora looked closer at James. "What's wrong?"

James tried to stop the tears again, but this time they fell unheeded. "I'm worried," he said finally in a frail voice. "If you don't come and help Sev, then he _won't_ be helped. He'll be gone like all the others."

Pandora seemed to lean closer. "Are you certain?"

James shrank back from the sharp, searching look in her eyes. "It hurts, Grandmother. It hurts like Jonathon. Please come for Sev. You have to."

"I'll come," she immediately. Her head disappeared and footsteps hurried away from the fire. Dumbledore waved his hand and the magical fire snuffed out immediately.

It was difficult to determine for whom Pandora came. She clearly would have come if summoned for the sake of Severus, but there remained the greater favour and love she held for James. Perhaps, if James had not asked her to come and Dumbledore said her presence, while welcome, was not needed, she would have remained home in quiet worry. But to ease the pain James felt, even more so because he said it hurt like his dead brother, Pandora came.

Little less than a quarter of an hour after Pandora had been notified, James, who watched from an upper window, saw Pandora land before the great front doors with Severus in her arms. The pain in his chest burned away like fog under a hot sun. James rushed forward to meet them, nearly slipping and tumbling headlong down the stairs in his haste. "Grandmother!" he called. "Sev!" Giddy with delight, he threw himself at his grandmother and brother. He peered worriedly over her arm at Severus. "Is he okay?" he asked, his voice full of concern. "I jumped in after him, but I couldn't find him and Hagrid pulled me out."

"He will be fine."

"Where was he?"

Immediately, James noticed how Pandora seemed to flinch at his question. She did not meet her eyes as she skirted around a straightforward answer. "By the shore," she replied finally. "I found him by the shore." Her answer rang hollow. Even Severus' eyes were more hidden than usual.

James released Pandora and stared after her, resentful at being excluded from their secret. He followed after them like a dejected shadow. He silently watched as Madam Carnish and Pandora fussed over Severus. James decided to ask Pandora of the truth later, and focused instead on Severus. James took Severus' drenched and frozen robes as soon as he had been stripped free of them and carried them off to a linen basket. He returned in time to see Pandora informing a house elf she wanted hot broth.

Albus Dumbledore had entered the infirmary by the time Pandora received the broth and was setting up a tray. James found himself with nothing to do, so he satisfied himself by sitting on the edge of the bed. Words were exchanged to discover what happened. James watched as his older brother sank within the folds of the warmed blankets. "I think that Lucius meant to scare us," Severus said.

James gazed at Severus with concern, knowing full well how cruel Lucius could be when he was in the mood for it. When Dumbledore asked Pandora where she had found Severus, she gave him the same answer James had received. Even Dumbledore knew she was not saying everything, and again James felt the same flare of resentment.

That passed almost immediately when he learned that Severus would receive his own Sorting Ceremony. He excitedly told Severus of how the Sorting had been like in the Great Hall. He recalled as many details as he could, and those that he could not he made up. He could just imagine Severus' sarcasm upon learning how worried James had been.

McGonagall brought forth the Sorting Hat, followed closely by Lily, Sirius, Frank and Remus. She perched the Sorting Hat on top of Severus' head. James watched Severus' face closely. He hoped that Severus would be a Gryffindor too. Severus was strong and brave, even more than James. If they were together in the same House, then it would be almost like home! He even told Severus something to that. "I hope you wind up in Gryffindor too. Then we can all be together!" He ignored the look of dismay on Severus' bony face.

To James' own horror, the Hat announced Slytherin. James felt another ache blossom within his chest. Severus looked at him smugly as Pandora beamed proudly. But that was the House that Lucius was in! James knew, without being told, that Severus was in great danger. "That's where Cousin Lucius is," he whispered when the adults moved out of hearing. The others seemed to sense how James felt, for they, too, appeared worried.

Henceforth, James donned upon himself the task of being the Older Brother. His decision to do so seemed to go unnoticed by Severus, since Severus still acted as if _he_ were the older brother. Sensing the danger Lucius posed, James sought to keep Severus well in his sight and met with him on a steady basis. Doing so informed Lucius of how much attention James was paying his brother, of how very little would escape _his_ notice. If Severus moved oddly, looked strange, or there was discoloration upon his body, James would know immediately. And so would Pandora.

James met with Severus early every morning. He would bound across the room from the Gryffindor table to the Slytherin table and then came back — usually with Severus on tow. After a few weeks, no one blinked in surprise at the sight of a lone Slytherin eating at the Gryffindor table. It was unprecedented, to be sure, but this was the Snape/Potter family – unprecedented was _normal_ for them.

James made sure that Severus could not escape by engaging him in conversation about his day, his classes, news from Pandora. Anything he could get Severus to listen to without leaving abruptly was reason enough for James to babble. James decided that the longer Severus was in his sight, the less chance he had of getting hurt by Lucius.

As the weeks progressed, James discovered another method of keeping Severus close or, in the very least, on a regular schedule that brought Severus close.

Peter, since he had been rescued from the waters (sort of) by James, clung to James as his protector as easily as he had clung to Severus as his protector on September 1st. Seeing another human so much like Jonathon, innocent and vulnerable, James allowed Peter to cling to him. When James learned of how Peter was often ignored by their fellow Gryffindors merely because Peter, like Oliver Potter, lacked a sort of presence, James declared Peter one of his best friends and brought him into the inner-circle where only Remus and Sirius dwelled.

Only once did Sirius try pulling a prank on Peter, as he did everyone else. James made Sirius swear he would never again toy with Peter in any way after James learned of how Peter had been "chased by g-g-ghosts a-and locked in-in a d-d-dark, d-d-dank closet with a B-b-b-b-bogey!"

When James learned of how Peter lagged in his classes, he tried to help Peter study. However, James was not the teaching sort. Peter needed someone articulate enough to explain a single meaning in so many different ways. That was where Severus came in. James had always admired Severus' quick tongue and sharp wit (so long as it was not used on him, of course). He knew that Severus was good in his classes and that the professors sometimes paired him off with slower students.

With Remus and Lily to help temper Severus' quick tongue and sharp wit, James coaxed and pleaded Severus into tutoring Peter. When James saw how successful that was and how it occupied Severus, who generally spent a great deal of his time reading, sulking in some obscure corner and ignoring the world in general, he decided the idea was good enough to work again.

And again, and again, and again.

James brought any student he knew who was having difficulty in classes to Severus for tutoring. Severus grunted, gritted his teeth, glared at James, but never complained. James loved him all the more for it.

But Severus needed to do more than just tutor. All work and no play made Severus a very dull boy, after all. James forced Severus into as many activities as he could; yet the only one that seemed to hold Severus' attention for any reason was Quidditch. It was not so much as _Severus_ liked to play Quidditch, or even fly for that matter, but that he enjoyed both the quiet company of Lily and Remus, and watching James participate in something James cherished.

James loved to fly. In the air, he was as free as the wind with which he danced. In those glorious moments when he was suspended above the ground, caught within the chances between being hurled endlessly through the blue skies and plummeting to the ground far below, James felt power lines that arched through and beyond reality. James was beyond the reach of time in the air, an endless ball of energy and life that could survive all mishaps.

How could Severus possibly not care for something like this? Quidditch combined this endlessness with the heady rush of competition and desperation of a catch, of power and the struggle thereof. How could anyone possibly not care for this? James scoffed at Severus' lack of interest in flight or Quidditch, and felt sorry that his brother could not know and therefore understand such a tangled web of magnificent feelings and wonder.

In their third year, everyone went regularly to Hogsmeade. Severus was always brought along much like excess baggage. He grumbled, complained, and made sarcastic comments of how fun brought out the idiocy in people, but the others ignored him. James knew Severus spoke out of habit, and not maliciousness or genuine dislike.

At least he _hoped_ that was the explanation for Severus' constant bad mood.

If the bad mood was genuine, James attested it to Lucius. The rumours that Lucius eagerly spread around Hogwarts through people who had followed him through the years were difficult for James to stop. He fretted over the malicious lies. Each one he heard he told Severus himself, so Severus would not overhear them from someone who believed the lies or would use the rumours against Severus.

James made sure no one could harm Severus with twisted and biting words, although no one had the skill to face Severus with his favourite weapons: sarcasm and verbal malice.

Severus acted as if he cared less for the rumours, but James felt otherwise. In some level, surely Severus chafed against the vulgar and cruel slanders. Even Pandora was shocked to learn what a few were and went out of her way to give a piece of her mind to Romono Malfoy of his son's behaviour.

James did not take Severus everywhere or tell him everything that he did. There are few things that one should avoid telling their elder brother, and saying that he, James, was one of the biggest troublemakers at school was definitely one such thing. The Marauders, as Lucius had named the quartet that included James, Sirius, Remus, and Peter, were notorious for their mischief.

But James wasn't dumb enough to brag about it to Severus, oh no!

* * *

Learning that Remus was a werewolf was a momentous event in James' life. He learned quite by accident. On home for Christmas vacation in their third year and Pandora off to confront Voldemort once more, James searched for something to read. In Pandora's library, tucked within the pages of a book he had never seen before, entitled _Study of Voodoo Magic_, James discovered a faded letter. Pandora had tucked it in a chapter that read "Voodoo Uses To Cure Magical Maladies." Curious of its contents, James read the letter. 

It was addressed to Pandora from more than eight years ago. It was from Favian Lupin, who asked Pandora if she knew if there was any known possible cure for lycronthopy. _My son,_ the letter read, _was bitten by a werewolf. Remus possesses a tender and loving personality, very unsuitable to match that of a werewolf's! My wife and I love him too much to put him down, since he does not deserve that. Even if he is a danger, we know he would not purposefully harm humans as other werewolves have in the past._

That was as far as James could go. He slammed the book shut, shoved it back on the shelf, and ran all the way to Remus' home. Remus cried upon learning that James now knew of his "sickness." He held Remus as tears fell down his face.

"I couldn't tell," Remus whispered into James' tear-damp shoulder. "I couldn't tell anyone that I'm a monster. I don't want to hurt anyone. I'm sorry."

James repeatedly told Remus that it was fine; he did not mind not being told, Remus was still his friend. He swore up and down how he would do his best to find a cure for Remus and, if that was not possible, would at least help ease the pain from that one time each month he reverted from being gentle, patient Remus to a cursed beast.

Pandora found James searching her library for information on werewolves. She raised an eyebrow at the gigantic pile of reading material he gathered together. James gazed at her with a grave calmness.

"I know," he said softly. "He's my friend, and friends help one another." He went back to his reading. "I will find a way to help him." Pandora selected two books – one from a distant bookshelf, the other from his pile of material.

"I have scoured this library six times over for help. I asked your grandfather if he could think of anything, but all our efforts have been for naught. The life of a werewolf is a cursed, horrid life that spins further and further out of control, and not something I would ever wish upon my enemies. I do not understand how the Lupins can possibly cope with the pain of knowing how much their loved one suffers. I cannot, nor will not, forbid you to do something you will do regardless of what I say. I believe you are mature and responsible enough to handle matters like a young adult. Remember to stay out of trouble above all else, and _do not get bitten._ I could not bear for any of my grandsons to suffer as Remus does." She found a place in one book and held it out to James. He accepted it.

Pandora bent over to plant a quick kiss on the top of James' head and departed. James looked at the books Pandora had given him. The one she had rifled through the pages of she left open on a new chapter that read, _The Calming Influence of Magical Animals._ He picked it up and looked beneath to the other book she had given him.

_Animagus: Finding Your Aspect_

* * *

Some years later, Pandora's words echoed hauntingly through James' mind as Severus trembled before him. Severus made an impressive figure as he stood regally before the swaying Whomping Willow, but the look in his eyes shattered James' heart. 

If Jonathan had a look in his eyes when his head was torn free from his body, James felt it would have looked just like Severus'. It would have been agony, sorrow, disbelief, and devastated remains of trust all mixed together to form a single lump of desolation that stole away light. He had never seen Severus lose so much control. He had never known how angry Severus could become.

He had never thought Severus could cry.

James never before realized how dangerous Severus was, or how much control Severus maintained over his temper. James' heart already bled from knowing he could have killed his brother, and Remus – dear, gentle, innocent Remus - would have been responsible.

James was no better than Voldemort. It was James' fault; he was all too aware of that. He knew he should have trusted Severus to tell him about Remus when Severus had earlier inquired of Remus' health. Yet how could such a subject be broached?

_ "Sure, Remus is sick. He's been sick ever since a werewolf bit him about ten years ago. How come you're just now noticing? A little slow on the up-take, brother dear." _

How could he approach Severus with such a weighty secret? But he _could_ have found a way to inform Severus. He _could_ have told Severus just as he told Sirius and Peter (rather, explained, seeing as how they had overheard James and Remus speaking together of the matter). Because it was his fault, there was no need for Sirius and Peter to also bear the brunt of Severus' scathing anger. Had Pandora not told him to handle matters like a young adult? He would speak later to Sirius and Peter, but now was the not the time. Now was the time to reconcile with Severus, if that was at all possible, to repair the damage done.

When Sirius and Peter left, Severus became angrier, as if he had been waiting to be alone with James. This Severus, one who had little control over his temper, whose voice rose in levels of volume James had never heard before, whose insults and names were far worse than anything uttered, frightened James. Severus was always cool, calm, and collected. Severus was not this unstable creature who made James flinch in fear.

"Why?" Severus yelled angrily. "Why wasn't this entire mess simply cleared up with Sirius telling me about Remus? Why did he send me after a boy who was going to turn into a hungry werewolf?"

"He didn't mean to," James said. Perhaps if he spoke calmly, Severus would react in the same manner. If Severus stopped shouting, then he would be rational and controlled once more. James silently begged for his brother to return to being normal. He did not like this stranger who was so open with his emotions. "He only meant for you to see what we did."

"Why did he tell me to follow after Remus? How was that not meaning for me to get eaten?"

Obviously, Severus needed to be redirected from that direction of thought. "He only meant it as a prank."

"A prank that would have had me _dead_ and Remus a _murderer_!"

Oh, worse! James was _worse_ than Voldemort. Because of him, Remus would have lost all protection that Pandora had ensured him, and Severus would have been killed or cursed. His old family James could not protect. His new family he nearly destroyed himself. Stupid, bad, horrible. How could he? What would Pandora say? James' chest ached awfully at knowing how disappointed Pandora would be, how was wounded Severus' heart.  
Severus paused a moment in his shouting. His chest heaved with ragged breaths. Something in his eyes glittered. "_Have you no faith or trust for me?"_

Agony exploded in James' chest. He turned away from Severus so his brother could not see the tears that threatened to spill. James tried to say something. Yes, he did trust Severus. He trusted Severus almost as much as Pandora. Well, perhaps not in the ways that he should, but he _did_ trust Severus!

James tried to swallow the lump of flesh caught in his throat. He knew Severus awaited an answer, but James could not give one. Could not breath with the ashes coating his lungs, with this agony in his chest where his heart was aflame.

"So be it," James heard Severus say in a quiet, calm voice. James looked at him in a mixture of shock and hope. Severus had calmed down, finally – this was the brother he knew! Severus straightened to his full height and said, "So be it," again. With that, Severus abruptly turned from James and took one step towards Hogwarts. His leg immediately buckled beneath him and he nearly fell flat on his face. He caught the rough bark of a nearby tree, skin scraping loudly.

James hurried forward to help, but the dark, wild look Severus cast him made him freeze. This Severus was not the Severus of old, the calm and collected one. This Severus was a Severus who tottered on the edge of insanity, and all he needed to topple over was a single, inadvertent push.

Severus stubbornly gritted his teeth and pushed away from the tree; took another step forward. Again his leg buckled beneath him and he nearly collapsed. James looked down and saw the blood that ran down Severus' leg in rivulets. He stared in frozen horror as visions of blood sprayed against cabinets and knives, their edges dripping with red, flashed through the air into flesh. Severus managed a third step and would have fallen if he had not grabbed another tree.

"You — you were bitten?!"

Severus growled almost in the same manner as Remus did during the full moon. James wanted to scream, to claw the stabbing lump of agony ravaging his chest.

"Leave off," Severus snapped. Black eyes flickered over to him. The devastation of believing he had nearly been killed by his brother and friends was pushing the limits of sanity within Severus' mind. James ignored the snarl and grabbed Severus' shoulder. Severus jerked away from him and nearly fell over in the process. "Haven't you done _enough_ harm?" Severus asked as he hunched over and hooked a trembling arm around a tree limb for balance. His voice broke in despair. James clenched his hand into a fist and walked around to face Severus.

"Damn it! Sev, why do you have to be so stubborn?" Severus' black eyes opened even wider than before and glared daggers at James. Gone was the tottering between sanity and insanity. All that filled the black eyes now was pain. Somehow, Severus managed to summon the strength to shout.

"And _why_ can't _you_ grow up? When are you going to realize that pranks and mischief are foolish, childish habits that only hurt people? For years I was the butt and the punch line of Sirius' jokes, and when it goes too far — what could have killed me is going to turn me into a _monster_ — all you can say is 'he didn't mean to.'" Severus began to cry, and his voice dropped into a pleading whisper. "N-not meaning to does n-not excuse the fact that it happened! From the start — in Diagon Alley, in th-those days when I had no name, no family, no home, no no no hope, and rarely any food — you never gave me a single bloody _chance_... James, you are my brother. When did you treat me like a brother as much as you treated the others? You helped me, you cared for me, and you shared, but you never trusted." James closed his eyes in pain as tears pricked at them, and Severus dealt the final blow. "Is it any wonder why I am in Slytherin, the House most known for being _untrustworthy_?"

He heard Severus shuffle once, and then desperately begin to limp towards Hogwarts. James was overwhelmed with the pain in his chest. Everything was his fault. He tried, but it was not enough. On some levels, perhaps he did not try enough. Yet Severus was still in great need, and James knew he was not good enough, not skilled enough, to ease that need.

Grandmother. In that moment, when his chest ached with pain and his vision blurred with tears, James reverted back into an eleven-year-old boy. Pandora Potter was the one person James knew who could make things right. _She_ would help Severus; _she_ would make the pain go away. Without thinking, James transformed into a young buck. The stench of blood, fear, pain, and terror permeated his senses. The buck balked and danced skittishly about. James forced his human senses into command and shot past Severus in a mad dash. He scurried back to Hogwarts as fast as he could. At the entrance of the Hogwarts castle, he saw Pandora land before the great doors on her battered old broom, a trunk strapped safely behind.

He transformed back into his human self just as Dumbledore and Pomfrey exited the castle to greet Pandora. "Grandmother!" His call was flung wildly in her direction. James could not disguise his terror for Severus' safety within his voice. Pandora hurried forward to meet with him, eyes wide with unknown fear. James skidded to a halt, whipped around without saying a word, and ran back in the direction he had come from. He could not bear to look into his grandmother's eyes when he told her of what happened to Severus.

_ "I do not understand how the Lupins can possibly cope with the pain of knowing how much their loved one suffers . . . I could not bear for any of my grandsons to suffer as Remus does." _

"Severus has been hurt!" he called over his shoulder. He heard Pandora give chase, followed by Pomfrey who knew that anyone hurt would have to see her eventually. James felt the agony in his chest increase to an indescribable level. His voice choked with tears. "Remus bit him." That was when he heard a third person join their run and knew that Dumbledore was following closely behind. Long moments later, they met with Severus.

Severus leaned tiredly against a tree, his entire body trembling with fatigue and pain. His robes clung to his body, soaking wet from the sweat that drenched his body. Severus' feverish eyes were unfocused and glazed over when he lifted his drooping head. He swayed slightly as Pandora came into sight. While James stopped just out of Severus' reach, Pandora continued running until she reached Severus' side, catching him in her arms. Severus clutched her desperately like a little child. He fell to his knees and buried his face in her breast.

"How long does it take for a bite to take effect?" Pandora asked Pomfrey. It was Dumbledore who answered her.

"About a quarter of an hour."

James refused to look at Pandora. He could not bear to see the pain in her eyes and face as she beheld one of her worst fears taking place. He heard her curse rather colourfully. So _that_ was where Severus had gotten some of his vocabulary…

"Any cure?" Pandora sounded desperate.

"None that I am aware of."

"Any way to halt the werewolf's magic when bitten?"

"None that I am aware of."

That was when Remus in his werewolf form, momentarily forgotten, howled. Pandora cried then and James forced himself to look, to bear witness. Pandora wrapped her arms tightly around Severus' form and buried her face in his wild curls. Her shoulders shook for a moment before she looked up at James. He flinched as her eyes settled upon him, but the only emotion in them was a resigned misery. He unconsciously lifted his hand to claw at the agony within his chest. "I'm taking him to someone who may help," she whispered before she Apparated away with Severus in her arms.

James stared at the empty spot, droplets of blood staining the grass. He barely felt Dumbledore's arm circle around his shoulders and pull him into an uncomfortable embrace. "It hurts," he mumbled into Dumbledore's robes of pumpkin orange. "It hurts like Jonathon." He felt Dumbledore stiffen.

"Come." Dumbledore led James away from the area. No one said anything as Dumbledore took James to his office. He made James sit down and accept tea with enough sugar to send a diabetic into a coma. He did not make James tell him about what happened or explain matters. Instead, he stroked his beard thoughtfully as he studied the tea leaves. "Did I ever tell you of how your aunts Anastasia and Edwina turned the entire Hogwarts staff into Puffskiens?"

James had heard of the entire Hogwarts staff being turned into Puffskiens, although Pandora had always thought it had been the work of Adam Longbottom.

Dumbledore passed the time with stories of Anastasia and Edwina's pranks. James' life seemed to parallel with theirs so much that it seemed they guided him in their afterlife. Despite of the agony in his chest, James still found himself laughing at their mischievous nature.

James eventually fell asleep in the chair. He awoke when someone touched his shoulder, and found it to be Pandora. Dumbledore had withdrawn to grant them privacy. She gave James a tired smile as she leaned against the chair.

"Carelessness," she said softly, "is a strange thing. Many people agree that it is created by stupidity. This is true. It is also caused through recklessness, negligence towards responsibility, ignorance of the entire situation, and lack of foresight. Remember, James, your entire future depends upon two things: the choices _you make,_ and the carelessness that makes the choices _for you._ Carelessness is what happens when we do not see, on all levels, what our decisions cause. As this is impossible to everyone, no matter who they are, _everyone_ is guilty of being careless. However, some carelessness can actually be prevented if that person realizes the immediate consequences that follow at the heel of the deeds. Beware, for carelessness is a trap that we all fall into."

She planted a quick kiss on his cheek. "I love you, James. Remember that no matter what you do or who you become, I shall always love you." She stood and placed a firm hand upon his shoulder. "I cannot blackmail you into the same attitude, but I beg you to always remember that love is unconditional. Remember to love Severus no matter who he is or what he becomes. He is a smart one, but love escapes his knowledge. He does not understand it, and less so than even you or I, and it is because of his life. He has wanted to control his life from the moment he left the slums – do not try to stop this. Help him, support him, and let him know that you are reliable. It is all you can do now after what has happened."

James nodded, unsure of what she was trying to tell him. Pandora smiled again. "I leave now," she said. "There are things about Voldemort none of us understand. To do so, I must trace his footsteps through his past. He is what he created himself to be, and we must learn of how he did so. I do not know when I will be back or how long it will take me. Farewell." She turned and walked away.

It was the last time James would see his grandmother until he sought her out for Severus' sake once more.

* * *

LOVE'S TRIUMPH

James, in every instance in his life, had a strong, prominently independent, female role model in his life. There would have been those who would say that a lack of a father figure would cause him social and emotional problems when he was older, but James never seemed to notice. To James, sex and gender meant nothing more than the sort of clothes you had to wear because of society's standards. The only thing he ever attested to the individual sex was his grandmother's chest, the rounded softness that he often buried his face in when he was younger and was trying to sleep through nights where it was too silent and all he could do was think and remember of a past tainted in crimson.

Shortly before Christmas, when McGonagall had accompanied Pandora's grandsons back to Dinsmore, James realized how final Pandora had made her goodbye. He locked himself in her room and stared at the Mirror of Rebounds, covered as it was by a simple blue silk cloth. Tears streamed down his face as he rocked in Pandora's rocking chair, wrapped in the white shawl that Pandora's mother had made and what Pandora would wear around her shoulders on cold evenings.

"Hey, kid, what's the matter?"

James did not even look away from the Mirror of Rebounds. He hated the thing. It killed his parents. It killed his brother. It probably took Pandora away from him. He cursed its existence. He cursed its maker.

"Hello? Heeeellllllooooooo…"

"Go 'way," James muttered. He was used to seeing Cousin Quigley Snape, but only when the ancestral portrait was heavily intoxicated and blubbering tearfully of some injustice another portrait had committed against him. Cousin Quigley was not someone James wanted to associate with, even if he were not in his current state of misery.

"You look like you just lost your best friend."

James pulled his knees up to his aching chest. In some corner of his mind, he knew that Pandora would scold him for putting his feet on her rocking chair's cushion.

"Surely it can't be all _that_ bad."

James lifted one hand up long enough to wipe the moisture from his vision, but he only succeeded in making his blurry vision worse.

"I mean, you're a survivor. You've been through worse and I'm sure you can get through this."

James whirled around to face the still-life painting of a crooked jug of milk and a bunch of wrinkled purple grapes that hung beside Pandora's bedroom door. "Will you shut up!" he snapped at the rumpled figure that sat with his back against the jug of milk. Cousin Quigley was in his early thirties, but looked about twenty years older than that due to his excessive drinking habits. His hair was reddish-brown, and he was podgy rather than compact like the other Snapes. He looked puzzled at James' outburst.

"Why?" he asked.

James tried to reply, but sobbed instead. He turned away from Cousin Quigley and pulled Pandora's shawl tighter around his body, trying to keep himself from blubbering like a baby. Sev wouldn't cry – but then, he wasn't Sev.

The cloth slid off the Mirror of Rebounds and Cousin Quigley appeared within the smoky glass. He frowned thoughtfully and folded his arms over the curved frame. "You know," Cousin Quigley began, "this is just another point of your life. Everything that you do creates what you become. If you insist on moping, you'll never get anything done."

James whimpered. "She's gone."

"Of course she is. But that doesn't mean she won't be back."

James wiped his runny nose with a corner of Pandora's shawl. "She didn't say when she would."

"So?" Cousin Quigley shrugged. "She doesn't know, and it's better to leave an opening rather than a time restriction that she would have to break in the end." He blinked and rubbed his head. "Who _is_ this 'she' we're talking about anyway?"

James growled. His hands itched to throw something at Cousin Quigley - preferably something heavy enough to smash the Mirror of Rebounds at the same time. "You don't understand anything!" He pressed one hand over his heart, which pounded with great, thundering, agonizing booms.

Cousin Quigley seemed to sense James' pain. He hugged himself and gazed at James with haunted eyes. "I understand far too well," he whispered. "While your loved ones were taken from you, mine I purposefully sent away. And this I do know of you: James Potter, you _will_ die of a broken heart."

With those ominous words, Cousin Quigley began to retreat backwards with his eyes capturing James'. Then he tripped backwards, his arms pin-wheeling in the moments before he toppled over. "Ach!" he cried, out of sight. "A perfectly good exit ruined thanks to you brats!"

The portraits of Anastasia and Edwina popped into sight. They bore a resemblance to Pandora, owing to her once-black hair, but they had Francis' eyes and leanness. The twins grinned good-naturedly.

"We," announced Anastasia, "have your whiskey!" She did a little dance with the small brown bottle she held.

Edwina laughed and lifted her own hands to reveal her surprising theft. "And your shoes!"

Giggling like schoolgirls, they gathered their skirts and dashed away as Cousin Quigley staggered to his feet and shook a fist at them. "You brats!" he yelled as he ran after them.

Pandora's portrait wandered into view. She clucked her tongue and put her hands on her hips as she stared after the retreating portraits. "Children," she muttered disdainfully. She looked at James, but her words were meant for everyone. "You _all_ need to grow up." James whimpered and her expression softened. "My dear," she said, "I saw Severus moping in the kitchen, grumbling about how it's just like you to leave him to a miserable Christmas. Wipe your eyes, wipe your nose, and go share the holiday with your brother." She waited expectedly for him to move.

"Grandmother?"

"Yes?"

James hesitated. It was difficult to speak of his grandmother _to_ his grandmother when that grandmother, technically, was an object of paint and canvas that moved within pictorial realms. "Will you ever be back?"

She hesitated with her answer, as if she well understood how he felt. "I don't have to be back," she said finally as she tilted her head to the side and regarded him thoughtfully, "I'm always here. Perhaps misplaced in some ways, but I'm always here for you hold my heart in your hands."

James smiled at her then, a smile that shone bright beyond his tears.

Severus was quiet and sullen when James joined him. They somehow managed to scrounge a Christmas dinner together without speaking. James cooked and Severus did the dishes. The bright side was a quick note that Pandora sent them. It said, in so many words, that she missed them, hoped they were getting along or at least staying out of trouble, and that she was following a trail two decades old of a man who searched for powers wicked and immense.

Christmas vacation came and went without communication between Severus and James. James sensed that Severus was trying to distance himself from everyone. He noticed how Severus even avoided the portraits, which was something he had never done before (unless it was Anastasia and Edwina, and only then he did so when Sirius was around). James bit his lip in pained silence as he watched Severus sitting alone in a quiet corner with a blanket thrown over the near-by portrait frame.

Severus was the sort who distanced himself from pain. Being used to it but ignorant of how to react, Severus instead removed himself from the source as swiftly as possible. Not knowing how else to respond, James did what Pandora had told him. He continued to love Severus, despite knowing that the only thing Severus would allow was James' respect. James complied with Severus' withdrawal from the world, but only because it seemed to make Severus… not so much happy, but perhaps a little more satisfied.

The night before they were due to return to Hogwarts, James went down to the Lupins' place. He saw Remus seated under a tree not far from the house, staring at the slivered moon between the tree branches. James silently sat down beside Remus.

"He'll never be the same," Remus whispered. "I'll miss him."

James, knowing that Remus spoke of Severus, silently agreed.

On the Hogwarts Express, James saw Lily. She sat inside one of the compartments with Peter, dressed in a simple blue shirt and a pair of striped trousers since she hadn't changed into her shapeless school uniform yet. James sat on the other side directly across from her, opened his mouth to greet her, and froze.

_ Lily has boobs? _

James gaped at the outline of Lily's supple bosom. She followed his gaze and then hastily kicked him in the knee. Her face was bright red as she hurried from the compartment with her arms wrapped around her chest.

Sirius nudged James. "Any particular reason why you were staring at Lily?"

James looked wide-eyed at Sirius as he absently rubbed his sore knee. "Lily's a girl!"

Remus snorted. "What gave her away? The fact that she doesn't stay in the boys' dorm with us these past four years?"

"How come you never noticed it before?" Sirius wondered.

Faced with this world-shaking discovery, James saw Lily in a whole new light. He had always known that she had a sharp sense of humour that skirted beneath the surface of a quiet, demure child. That quietness slowly receded with age, and her demureness became confidence with maturity. But there was more to her now, he realized.

James tried not to stare at her chest, but every time Lily came into view throughout the remaining school year, he craned his neck to see if he could detect the subtle curve beneath her school uniform. Lily, sensing that James' fascination with her blossoming womanly assets, did her best to evade him. It was a wild chase as James sought Lily and Lily avoided James. In the dark shadows, Severus observed both of them.

By the time Easter arrived, Severus had established a profitable betting pool of the day that James and Lily would marry.

"I should probably be stopping this," Dumbledore said as he looked over the calendar where Severus kept bettors' names listed on the days they placed their money. "But we shouldn't discourage the entrepreneur spirit." He neatly wrote his name on July 31st. "How is your grandmother?" he asked as he rifled through his pockets.

"She's tired," Severus said solemnly.

"Ah." Dumbledore handed Severus five galleons and then hurried away before McGonagall found him with the bookie-playing Severus.

Lily was shocked to learn that Severus was taking bets on hers and James' wedding date. "We haven't even kissed!" she exclaimed.

Severus shrugged and waved the calendar before her. "Ten sickles will get you on the list. I guarantee you'll make a killing." Lily, both dismayed and embarrassed, fled. Severus sighed. "Well, I see _my_ talents are required."

* * *

James was surprised when _Severus_ approached _him_ for the first time since Pandora had left. 

"I have a challenge for you," Severus said as he stopped just short of where James was seated in the library. He set a piece of parchment and a quill before James. "I want you to write a mushy poem about someone you love."

James stared suspiciously at the parchment. "Like Valentine's Day mushy?"

"Narcissa said you were incapable of mushy rhymes. I said otherwise. Write something like you're sending it to a girl you really, really like."

James looked sideways at Severus. Severus stared back with the same sour, tight-lipped look he wore regularly since the werewolf incident. James tried to believe it was possible that Severus was capable of pulling a prank on him… But Severus and prank did not go well together in the same sentence, unless Sirius was somewhere in between. Besides, Severus was willingly talking to him! That was reason enough to do this.

"All right." James pulled the sheet of parchment close and stared at it.

_My dearest love,_ he wrote.

Severus snickered. "You can do better than that."

James glared at him. "I'm just getting warmed up here!" He scratched out his first sentence and wrote, _When I think of you,_

"Try again, this time with some imagination."

James growled. "I know of _fleas_ more supportive than you. How would you suggest I begin?"

Severus thought briefly before he answered. "If you were like a flower."

James gave him a dirty look.

"I said you had to write something you'd be sending a girl. We're trying to prove that you can write mushy rhymes."

"Hmm." James felt an inkling of suspicion form. Severus may have been above jokes, but he would not deliberately deceive James.

Would he?

_If you were like a flower, _he wrote. He chewed on his bottom lip thoughtfully for a moment, and then added, _I would praise your fairness, your beauty. _

Severus snickered again. "I mentioned originality already."

"What you gave me wasn't much to work on with," James snapped. He scratched his head furiously for a moment, licked the tip of his quill, and began to write frantically.

_If you were like a flower, _

_ I would not pluck you. _

_ It would test my willpower, _

_ Still I would love to. _

Severus grunted. "That has about as much sense as Sirius possesses."

James ignored him.

_Too wild, too free, special. _

_I could not bring a ruin to that. _

_I am fetched with your being so beguile, _

_My feelings dance like an acrobat! _

Severus rolled his eyes. "I'm going to lose that bet with Narcissa," he complained. "And acrobats do not dance."

James threw his hands up in the air. "I'm trying, okay?"

_I would admire you from afar. _

_ And love you ever sweetly. _

_ Your beauty no one shall mar. _

_ I'll see to that, trust me. _

_ If you were like a flower, _

_I'd water and care for you. _

_My need for you would never sour. _

_I swear it is all very true. _

_If you were a flower, _

_And should I ever pick you, _

_It's because of the power, _

_You hold my heart hostage due. _

James looked at what he scribbled. "Maybe I should add a doodle of Narcissa's head on a pike," he suggested maliciously. If there were any way he could irritate Severus' older Slytherin classmates — even with a sappy poem — he would do so.

"Just sign it to prove you wrote it and give it to me."

"The poem's not that bad." James scribbled his name at the bottom.  
"It's atrocious."

James crossed his arms. "If it's so bad, then why are _you_ taking it?"

Severus picked the parchment up and rolled it into a tight cylinder. "Because," he said softly, "if nothing else, it's something of yours that I can keep." He swept away before James could think of a response.

Severus retreated from the library tracked down Lily. She was seen speaking to a few first year Gryffindors. As humans are creatures of habit, Severus knew that if she had not been made a prefect then Lily would have been found in the library with James. That would have made his scheme slightly difficult to carry out.

He waited for Lily to finish her attempt of kindly explaining to the Gryffindors why Slytherins were such trouble-causers to the other Houses. He ignored the wide-eyed stares the first years gave him as Lily finished her explanation. She jumped in surprise when she realized how close he stood to her.

Severus glared at the first years until they scuttled out of his sight. He turned to Lily and held James' poem out to her. "This is for a flower," he said tonelessly with a slight twitch, as if he was irritated with the prospect of delivering it. "Just between you and me," he leaned close so she could catch his whisper, "I would place its value on the effort, if not the style." With a quiet snort, he whirled around on his heel and swept away.

The next day at breakfast, Lily cautiously sat at James' side before Sirius arrived for breakfast. She smiled and covered his hand with hers. "It was very beautiful," she told him softly. Unsure as to what she meant, James nevertheless felt his heart thump in painless excitement at the soft hand that covered his wind-roughened knuckles.

In the two years that followed hence, James and Lily underwent a storm of passion and indifference. The students and teachers watched their wild courtship with bated breath. Just when it seemed that Lily and James were about to crash together in a flurry of horribly-rhymed poetry and frantic kisses, they coldly withdrew from one another. They stepped about carefully, as if walking upon broken glass, with one another for some time after such a withdrawal, and then chemistry would sizzle and explode into a fierce passion once more before another cold withdrawal fell upon them.

Under such roller coaster circumstances, Severus made an economical killing with his betting pool.

James happened upon this knowledge of Severus' betting pool quite by accident. He overheard Sirius telling Peter that Severus was up to no good. "Who knows what he would do to James and Lily's relationship since _he's_ the one taking the bets over when they'll get together?" Sirius whispered loudly to Peter, who vigorously nodded his head in agreement. James butted in between them and demanded an explanation. Amid stutters and hesitated silences, James managed to piece together how Severus had developed a betting pool based completely off of _his_ relationship.

James stormed over to the Slytherin table where Severus sat alone, munching contentedly on a piece of toast slathered with enough butter to cause a multitude of heart attacks in a geriatric ward.

"Severus," James said between gritted teeth, "may I have a word with you?" He nodded towards the doors. "In _private_?" Severus shrugged and carried along the piece of toast.

"What is this betting pool I hear about?" James demanded when they stood together privately. Severus ignored him as he rescued a glob of butter before it slipped off the side of the toast and fell to the floor. "Sirius said that you were taking bets on when Lily and I are getting married? We haven't even decided that we would!"

Severus took a large bite of his toast and chewed thoughtfully. His eyes were hooded and calm as he studied James.

"Is it true?"

Severus shrugged. "Ten sickles will get you on the calendar."

James stared at Severus in shock. "You stop that!" he declared finally. "Call the entire thing off! Give those people _back_ their money!"

Severus shook his head. "No."  
"I'll tell Dumbledore!"

Severus smiled smugly. "He has five galleons invested."

"I'll tell McGonagall!"

The smugness was beginning to infuriate James. "She has two galleons invested."

James stuttered to a halt, scratched his head vigorously, and then tried again. "I'll tell _Grandmother_!"

Severus crammed the rest of his toast into his mouth. "I don't care."  
So James did. He fired off a hasty letter to Pandora, explaining the situation and what Severus was doing about it. Pandora's reply was quicker than usual.

_July 31st. Ten galleons. Take the money from my account, Severus. _

_ Love, Pandora _

_PS James, stop causing contention. >:( _

It was a self-satisfied Severus who told James of the letters' contents — minus, of course, the date that Pandora had selected. James' jaw hung loose in shock as Severus quickly slipped away before Pandora's letter could be ripped away from his hands.

"What's wrong?" Lily asked as she placed one small hand on his shoulder. James shook his head to clear it, and then frowned.

"My brother is a bookie," he grumbled, "and my grandmother gambles."

* * *

Lily and James were in one of their indifferent moods when their seventh year ended. Without too much of a backward look (at least, when he thought no one was looking), James set off to join the Department of Law And Order. With his background of Defence Against Dark Arts, his family connections, and Frank Longbottom's insistence, James was quickly allowed into the ranks of the Aurors, the wizarding equivalent to the SWATs. With Frank Longbottom as his superior and team leader, James found it easy to learn the protocols of the Aurors, their duties, and the reactions to dangers involved. 

His time was mostly spent with learning and training to fight under difficult circumstances. He went home to Dinsmore as often as possible though. Severus remained cold and withdrawn, almost as if he resented James' presence. As he watched Severus stalk silently through the halls, still ignoring the portraits as they called after him, James knew that Severus would use any possible excuse to escape this world.

The only thing that kept Severus tied to Dinsmore was the need for someone to see to the Snape-Potter finances and the somewhat more insignificant duty of introducing the concept of magic to Muggle-born children and their families.

Dinsmore was distant and cold; it had felt devoid of warmth since the day Pandora left. Severus' coldly dominant presence seemed to strip James of any cheerfulness he might have had before he came to visit, though James did as often as he could. He knew and understood Severus would not leave Dinsmore to rot away without care, but he had a small inkling of suspicion that Severus might leave one day without a word. James did not want to be ignorant of Dinsmore's current status if Severus would do such a thing.

James often brought company along, more as a barrier against Dinsmore's emptiness and Severus' distant attitude than anything else. Sirius, Peter, Lily, even Remus if at all possible, all visited Dinsmore with him. Remus stopped after the first few times. He could stand the emptiness and Severus' attitude even less than Lily could, who left in tears after each visit. Frank was the only one brave enough to see Severus alone. He seemed less affected by the state of Dinsmore or Severus' attitude. Stubborn and patient with Severus, he brought along sweets that Severus was fond of but always refused to admit liking.

And then a slight change overcome Severus' attitude. It was not so much that Severus grew closer to James, or warmed up, but there was a desperate note in his voice that no one but James seemed to notice; a desperate, veiled plea for his help. After a few weeks, James decided to come to Dinsmore alone and present Severus as chance to speak intimately. Perhaps all Severus needed to confide with James was privacy.

James' suspicions were confirmed when Severus handed him a mug of hot cocoa and beckoned him to sit down at the kitchen table. Hot cocoa had been an unspoken signal in their youth at Hogwarts to brace oneself against inevitable bad news.

They both stared at their mugs in silence. James finally cleared his throat and spoke. "What is it?"

Severus snorted and pushed his hot cocoa away. "I have something very important to tell you," he began with a slight quiver in his voice.

Panic laced through James. A hand seemed to wrap itself tightly around his heart and squeeze painfully with each beat. He found himself automatically assuming the worst. "Is it about Grandmother? Have you received bad news from her?" A calm shake of Severus' heard stilled the panic, but not the pain or pressure in James' heart.

"No." Severus' black eyes begged James for his understanding. "But she would be so disappointed and saddened with me."

_Uh oh,_ James thought. His heart throbbed in painful sympathy. "Severus Snape, what did you do?" It had to be something dreadful, because James knew that Pandora was proud beyond description of Severus ever since bringing him home from the slums, and nothing ever seemed to diminish that pride.

Severus snorted in disgust. "Don't talk to me like you're Grandmother. James, I have never asked much from you. I ask now that you hear everything I have to say, without interruption, and without judgment, until I say I have nothing more to say in my defence and reasoning. Please."

Nothing could diminish that pride… short of murder. And that was surely what happened – Severus went loony and berserk and probably killed an innocent someone who trespassed into that private bubble of his, like maybe the postman! James covered his face with his hands. "Oh god, where did you bury the body?"

"I'm not – I didn't – James!" Severus made a fist and pounded the top of the table. "This is damned hard enough as it is without your stupid jokes!"

James looked at Severus, not bothering to disguise his worry and panic. "I _wasn't_ joking."

"Just – wait, please, or I'll lose my nerve and then we're both in trouble," Severus pleaded, sounding more vulnerable than James could remember. "Please. I know that Grandmother tried to get us to be good brothers, but it never quite worked. I never had the trust capable of asking you to trust me. It would never work for that. Now I am asking for your trust, and believe me, it is much harder to speak to you than it was committing my crime. Hear me out, please, before I begin to babble incoherently."

James stared at Severus for a long moment. The pain… He laid his hands flat on the table with his fingers splayed wide so he wouldn't give in to the urge to claw at his chest. The desperation in Severus' eyes was stark and raw. James wanted to cry for everything that should have been said but was not, for everything that should not have been said but was. Severus was giving him a great gift; one he did not deserve — at least, not after what had happened that one full moon so long ago, it seemed. That trust had been decimated beyond the hope of ever being repaired.

Now, though, Severus was trying to forge a new trust. "For you," James said hoarsely. "For the ties that make us family, for Grandmother, and for the sake of our being together makes us strong whereas our being separated makes us weak." And, just because he _still_ thought that the problem occurred because of a temporary fit of lunacy, "As long as you don't expect me to help you bury the damn body."

It wasn't a joke, really, but it still earned him a weak smile. "There's no body. No interruptions?"

"No interruptions."

"It all starts with this." Severus visibly gathered his resolve together, clenched his fists, and then swiftly yanked back his sleeve.

The sight of Voldemort's black skull made James reel up and back in shock as pain exploded in his chest. He knocked his chair over and froze at the sound of it hitting the kitchen floor. He stared at Severus. Anger filled him until it almost pushed the pain out of his heart. He wanted to scour the Dark Mark away his brother's flesh with his own fingernails.

_NO! _

James looked into Severus' eyes and saw the resignation of a man who knew he was condemned. This… This could _not_ be Severus' fault! Someone must have knocked him over the head and used a permanent marker as some sort of sick joke - but, but it wasn't. It wasn't, and somehow Severus was now forever branded as Voldemort's own.

James finally understood the haunted look in Severus' eyes that had plagued him for some time.

He would much rather have helped Severus relocate a dead body.

Because he was Severus' brother, and because he was Pandora's grandson, James found the strength to right his chair and sit down across from Severus again. But it was because he knew how difficult it was for Severus to even show him his arm that James made the decision to help Severus the best he could, starting by listening to what Severus had to say.

"I'm going to need something a bit stronger than hot chocolate," James said with a forced calm. "Where does Grandmother keep the vodka?"

* * *

The vodka settled warmly in his stomach. It did not ease the pain in James' heart, but he knew that if he drank enough of it then he would eventually feel too numb to care. It was a strong mixture — being Cousin Quigley's recipe for a Bloody Stressful Matter (or so the ancestor claimed as he directed James from one of the pictures nearby) — and did help stabilize his nerves. He smiled as bravely as he could and waved his hand in vaguely to encourage Severus. The grateful smile he received seemed to make up for all the trouble in the past. 

This was the most important. For Severus to communicate, to share with James, as they should have as children.

"We all have choices," Severus said solemnly. "And I always tried to think carefully of the consequences of the choices I made." James nodded in agreement, because Pandora had told him the same. "It begins with Lucius."

James frowned. Ah hah! So there was a dead body! He knew it! Or, at the very least, there _would_ be a dead body very, very soon.

He was sure Pandora would approve, just this once, and opened his mouth to inform this very thought to Severus. Severus held up a hand that stilled the worlds.

"I will have you know I did not deliberately seek out Voldemort." Severus began to rub his hands together, his words rattling against one another. "However, as Pandora Potter's grandson, Lucius believed Voldemort would be pleased if I were presented to him like a gift. So he made up a letter from Grandmother, and I stupidly opened it. There was a charm in the seal that knocked me out and Lucius whisked me away to Voldemort."

James dropped his eyes and studied the grain of the kitchen table; he clenched his drink tightly as the pain in his chest hit a crescendo. He was going to need a lot of booze to ease that pain.

Perhaps it would never ease.

"Voldemort gave me a choice: death or join him and receive anything I want. I decided death just wouldn't suit me, even though I've decided I'm going to haunt someone after I die." Severus' attempt to sound nonchalant fell flat to James' ears. "Share the misery and all that. With my luck being what it was at the moment though, I would die and not get to haunt Lucius."

The drink was suddenly pulled from his hands; James looked up, startled. "When I looked into Voldemort's eyes, I knew I had to fight him; I understood then Grandmother's desperation to understand the depths of that — that monster's power. But what good would I be if I died? I would not be the first person he would have killed, and no one else haunts _him_."

Severus paused long enough to gulp down a burning mouthful of alcohol, but James couldn't begrudge him for it. "So I said I would join him for knowledge."

James flinched. He knew that Severus always held knowledge and learning in high esteem, but Severus was not the sort to sell his soul for it... Right? James once more stopped himself from clawing at his chest, of ripping his beating heart from his chest so it no longer hurt, because Severus' decision had to be his fault — perhaps if James had pushed Severus and made him open up, then maybe this would not have happened. What was this called? A plea for attention?

As if sensing James' thoughts, Severus shook his head and held a finger in the air to emphasis his next words. " Knowledge of his actions. Knowledge that could be passed to the Aurors, who could use it to their advantage in the struggle to defeat him."

Oh. Oh dear. James had a feeling as to where this was going, and he did not think he cared for it.

"I would be a spy for you, James. I could give you the information you need, and if anyone asks where you got it, just tell them you have a spy, but don't mention my name. It must be a secret between the two of us. Dumbledore can't know, Lily can't know, Sirius can't know; don't even let Grandmother know. The less people who know of what I am, the less chance there will be of Voldemort finding himself in a position where he has to kill me."

The pain in his heart was beginning to choke the air from his lungs, and he guzzled the drink in a desperate attempt to deaden the pain. No no no no no-

"James? Please, don't let my choice be in vain."

James slammed his glass of vodka onto the table, wishing he could smash the glass or destroy the table or do _something_ to ease the agony. He laughed bitterly at the irony of a Death Eater begging help from an Auror. "It never ceases to amaze me how Voldemort destroys our family so easily time and time again."

In that moment, an eerie sensation invaded James, like a torrid of freezing water that drenched the burning agony in his heart. It felt as if he had just discovered a truth, but it was too complex for him to understand with simple thoughts and words. He stood up and began to pace. At least it no longer hurt to breathe. He tried to hold on to the sensation, but his thoughts and worries could not deter from Severus.

"How can you be so calm about this entire thing? That mark is a death warrant!" He stabbed a vicious finger at the Dark Mark that seemed to glare at him. Severus' face reflected conflicting emotions — shame, stubbornness, regret — as he pulled his long sleeve over the Dark Mark to hide it from James' view. " There are those who will kill you first then ask questions later about why you were with Voldemort. I don't want to use you as a spy. It places you into too much of a risk with people doing just that."

Severus rubbed the Dark Mark through his sleeve as if it pained him "It wasn't much a family when I became part of it," he snarled. James bristled defensively and Severus, shaking his head and pressing his fingers against his temples, sighed in regret. "What would or could be destroyed was done so _before_ I was adopted."

Again the eerie sensation filled James. James picked up his glass and carried it over to Pandora's store of various alcohols. He threw several unknown substances into his glass and hoped it would not kill him – Severus would never let him hear the end of it if _he_ wound up being the dead body to bury.

When he sat down once more, he arranged his thoughts. As much as Severus wanted to help him, as much as his brother was trying to find good out of a bad situation, James had to explain that Severus expected too much. " If I use you as a spy, I would be no more different than Lucius. He used you to gain the favour of Voldemort, just as I would be using you to gain the favour of, well, I'd be using you." _I'd be using you like Voldemort uses me against Grandmother. I'd be no better than him, and then you will die because of me. _

"It's my idea."

"I don't like it." _Grandmother is gone, and I know she isn't coming back. I can't afford to lose you. My heart – oh god stop the pain! _ "If Voldemort learns you're a spy, being Grandmother's grandson isn't going to save you. If the Aurors discover you as a Death Eater, being my brother will not save you. Either way, you're trapped." _I will kill _them_ to protect you if I have to, but we should not divide ourselves like this. I don't want to deceive people. If I had to chose between you and Sirius – oh god why why the pain make it stop. _ "Either way, you are trapped." _Please, let's just get out of this together._ Tears of anguish and misery were beginning to prick at his eyes, but he couldn't cry because Severus would sneer at him.

"And how many will die in the future?" Severus asked swiftly. " Right now, the Aurors are blind. You fumble in the dark, striking wildly at anything that moves. Voldemort has the advantage at the moment because he is a creature of the dark that knows exactly what is going on. How much could you change the odds if I feed you information? I could be the light in the darkness that would show you people where to go."

That nearly made James laugh, but he had a feeling Severus would sock him good if he did. _Ah, Severus_. _Why did the Hat put you in Slytherin? Those are a noble _Gryffindor's_ ideals! _"I don't like using you. What if you give us false information accidentally? How will both of us feel then? What if we let something slip and Voldemort finds out? There are too many unknown factors here."

"Your biggest problem is that you don't want to use me."

_No. Maybe. "_Yes."

"_Why_?"

"Because it's wrong! It'll be just like the way Voldemort uses people. We don't have to stoop to their petty level. We're better than them." _I won't become Voldemort and you won't be Pandora!_

They glared defiantly at one another, refusing to budge over the matter.

Severus shifted in his seat and looked at James with hooded eyes. "Remember how we met Lily?"

_That's a dirty, underhanded tactic… _"If you change the subject, I'm going to decide this conversation is closed and will not allow it not be brought up again."

"I'm trying to make a point, you dolt, now let me finish"

James winced. Of course Severus would result to that sharp tongue of his.

"When Grandmother told parents that their children were capable of magic and that yes, magic did exist, she first learned how acceptable the idea itself was for the parents by watching us manipulate one another into getting the child's reaction to it. In this, we do nothing dif—"

"This _is_ different!" James jumped to his feet and Severus shied back, crouching low like he wanted to retreat into the safety of the shadows. " This is not a game for us! There are too many lives and too many consequences now. We cannot afford to risk lives for a little bit of knowledge. I won't risk _you._" The older brother in James balked at the idea of risking his little brother. James fought to protect his loved ones, not jeopardize them. Now if he could just tell Severus how much he loved Severus, how important it was to him that Severus was kept safe, how much he wanted to keep the family together since the Potter trio was down to being the Potter duo. "Grandmother would have my head if—"

"And it is too late now!" Severus stood and loomed menacingly over James, vicious and graceful as a cornered panther that James once saw at the zoo with Pandora. It was unfair that James was the shorter of the two. "I am already a Death Eater. I have sat in on plans, made suggestions, and tomorrow, I lead an attack against the Muggle Slums of London. How do I back out of this situation? I _can't_. Where do I run that Voldemort will not eventually find me?" Severus swayed, his hands bunched in fists, and then added softly, "It was my life or Lily's."

James' strength disappeared as horror filled him, pain exploding in his chest. Not Lily. Not his dear, wonderful Lily. He fought back the tears. No, not her. But Severus – his dear, beloved, protective brother who was also a cruel and manipulative bastard! – would not back off and let James' heart recover from the shock.

"And now that it is _my_ life, that will be forfeit should I turn my back on Voldemort. If you refuse to take advantage of the choice I made, then it's useless. My life will be worth _nothing_." Severus leaned forward until their noses nearly bumped. "Are you so bent on doing what is honourable that, when I try to leave Voldemort otherwise, I will be played with? Do you want that instead? I would rather be used as a tool that could stop him than a plaything for his amusement!"

Blood flooded James' vision. Blood that splashed on walls and puddled on the floor; blood that washed warm and sticky over his face and soaked his clothes. The stench of death, the taste of Jonathan in his mouth and the ashes filling his lungs and his heart broke and broke and there was Oliver, dead on his knees before Voldemort but his eyes wide and unseeing.

_If Severus remains a Death Eater… _James' imagination instantly conjured up an image of Severus splayed crosswise over Voldemort's knees. His throat was cut from end to end, and even as his blood spurted over Voldemort's body his face wore an expression of ecstatic rapture.

A voice, much like Pandora's, whispered in James' mind. _We all have to die someday. We all every one of us were not meant to live forever. Tom Riddle, in that aspect, is an abomination. For the sake of future generations, we must sacrifice all that we have to assure a safe future for our loved ones. _

"Fine," whispered James, against the pain in his heart. "So be my spy." He hurried away from the kitchen and stumbled up the stairs to the floor above. Tears streamed unheeding down his face as he finally reached and entered Pandora's room, seeking for some little sanctuary, some peace from the bombardment of those days with Voldemort.

He collapsed in Pandora's rocking chair and wrapped her white shawl around his shoulders. Something was terribly wrong when he wiped his eyes with a corner. The white was no longer white.

He dabbed at his eyes with his hands and stared in mute horror. Shaking, almost bent in half from the agony that threatened to explode from his chest, he dragged himself to the Mirror of Rebounds and yanked off its blue cloth covering.

Blood.

James Potter was crying tears of blood.


	17. That Which James Witnessed 3 of 3

ASHES TO ASHES

James had earlier arranged a small luncheon date together with Lily at Diagon Alley for the day after he spoke with Severus. It was a miracle that he managed to find the strength to drag himself from bed and Floo his sorry arse over.

He felt too mortal and too old as he commandeered a café booth in the shade. Shortly thereafter, her red hair floating around her head like an angel's halo, Lily arrived. She breathlessly planted a kiss on his cheek and laughed happily as she pulled up a seat beside him.

James wanted to be young, carefree, and happy. Lily was the only one capable of making him feel like that any more. With Voldemort twisting Dark Arts into something people were too frightened of to even speak about behind closed doors, Remus had gone into hiding in fear of others learning that he was a werewolf. As a creature created by a dark force of nature, the Aurors would execute him publicly if they so much as suspected Remus was in league with the Dark Lord. James was _officially_ supposed to report all dark creatures, but he couldn't do that to Remus.

No one saw much of Remus any more though, and Sirius was becoming fidgety about the matter. Sirius remained with James as much as he could, but he was swiftly becoming a cynical soul, much like Severus. James was sure that neither Severus nor Sirius would appreciate the comparison of similarity, but James called 'em as he saw 'em.

And Peter... Well, at least Peter remained Peter, though he too was distancing himself from James.

Not, of course, in the same manner as Remus. Peter still communicated with James and Sirius and always much to tell. He just could not do it as often as he once had. James could understand that. Confrontation was never Peter's forte and he had a widowed mother whose increasing need for care due to a degenerative disease demanded a great deal of his time and attention. Medical bills were expensive and Peter scrambled to hold their tiny family estate together as best he could with a job as a clerk for a cauldron shop.

Peter never knew that James redirected the most expensive bills and secretly paid them himself. James did not want Peter to feel indebted toward him – even Peter deserved his pride, after all, but James selfishly wouldn't allow the pride to sink Peter. What was the use of a fortune large enough fund Hogwarts for ten years if James didn't get to spend it?

Life was like that. You had nothing to do and all the time in the world, or you had everything to do but not the time.

Looking upon Lily, James knew that it was now or never. He felt as if he were standing on a crossroads, torn over which direction he should head. But he would never return to this particular crossroad.

"Lily. I have something important to ask you."

Lily, puzzled but patient, nodded. "Yes?"

James leaned forward and took one of her hands into his, loving the silkiness of her skin. "Would you marry me?"

Lily gazed at James for a long moment, her eyes wide and her mouth slack in awe. She rapidly began to blink away tears. "Oh, James!" A large smile lit up her face, and in that moment James thought her to be the most beautiful creature that ever existed. "I've been waiting for you to ask me that ever since you wrote me that poem!"

She threw her arms around James in a large hug. "Yes!" she cried as she gave him a sloppy kiss. "Yes!" _smooch_ "Yes!" _smooch_ "Yes!" _smooch_

When they finally pulled apart, James asked her, "Poem? _What_ poem?"

Lily signalled a waiter. "Why, the poem you gave Severus to deliver to me, you silly. How could you forget it?"

"_I_ never wrote you a _poem_."

Lily's cheer turned into puzzlement. "Yes, you did. It was signed with your name, it was in your handwriting, and Severus said that I should place its value on the effort if not the actual poem itself."

James struggled to remember. "But _I_ never _wrote_ you a poem. Sev made me... Wait a minute." He frowned. "For a flower? Did the poem start with, if you were a flower?"

Lily smiled and nodded. "Yes." She blushed lightly. "There were a few of girls in my dorm that thought the poem was bad, but _I_ thought it was beautiful."

Ah _hah_. "Yeah. Beautiful."

Lily squeezed his hand. James managed to cover his frown with a smile. "James," she began, "do you mean to tell me that you never wrote me a poem? If you didn't, then it's all right. I won't be mad with you. But I don't think that Severus could have possibly have given me the poem as a prank. He's not a pranky sort of person."

_That's what I thought too,_ he thought to himself.

James managed to control his temper and even cheered up as he lunched with Lily. But as soon as they departed, a black mood descended. He felt like Severus made him the fool. It was not so much that he gave the poem to Lily, but Severus led him to believe that he was going to keep it, that he was going to show it to Narcissa as an answer to a dare.

James Flooed home to Dinsmore and stormed the cottage. Severus was in the part of the library that extended into the catacombs beneath Dinsmore, seated at a small table and hunched over a book's pages that were lit only by a single brace of candles.

"Severus!"

Severus looked up as James descended upon him. James angrily snatched the book away from Severus, slammed it shut, and tossed it to the side. "You _lied_ to me! You said that I was supposed to write a poem for you to prove to Narcissa that I could write a poem! You wanted me to make it as mushy as possible and you said you would keep it but then you gave it to Lily!"

Severus calmly crossed his arms before himself and gazed with eyes that seemed to gleam with dark amusement. "I decided to give it to someone who would appreciate its true worth."

"But _you_ said it was bad!"

"Not bad – horrid, perhaps; _appalling_, even, but not bad. But my opinion matters little in the concerns of the feminine taste."

James swept his hand through his unruly hair. "Did - did you _deceive_ me into writing the poem so you could give it to Lily?"

Severus' eyebrows twitched. "Did she like it?"

"She thought it beautiful."

"It was worth it then."

The brothers gazed at each other for a moment, and then James finally laughed and shook his head. "Since you played matchmaker for me, I ought to play matchmaker for you."

Severus smiled, but his smile was sad. "Find me a woman like Grandmother and I'll match-make myself."

"Lily is like Grandmother."

The sorrow in Severus' smile disappeared to show genuine joy. "Ah, but James, red hair hardly suits me. Besides, Pandora told us to stay out of trouble, and I think seducing Lily from you would get me killed three ways to Sunday."

"Too right it would. That reminds me – you should be the first I tell." Giddy with remembered delight, James rested his elbows on the table and grinned like a love-struck fool. "Lily and I are getting married!"

A sly look passed so quickly over Severus' face that James was unsure if it actually existed. "When are the dates?" Severus asked as he stood.

"Why?"

"Because," said Severus smoothly as he grabbed the bracer of candles and retreated upward, "there are invitations to write, plans to make, decorations to create, et cetera, et cetera. A wedding is a lot of work, especially since Frank will be married in six weeks and that is pushing my social life." He stopped and glared at James over his shoulder. "And if you make one crack about how I do not have a social life, I will—"

"But, Sev," James looked at his brother with wide, innocent eyes, "you _don't_ have a social life. The only time you ever left Dinsmore before you agreed to be Frank's best man was during the summer before McGonagall sent out invitation letters to Muggle-born wizards and witches."

Severus grumbled something about how he did not agree to be Frank's best man — Frank blackmailed him and he was only trying to save his dignity — and hurried to Dinsmore's parlour.

James and Lily wanted to get married as soon as possible. Two days, if that were all possible. Arguments sprang back and forth between Sirius and Severus of how James and Lily should do what they wanted and yet not make it look like they were trying to cover up hasty mistakes, such as an out-of-wedlock pregnancy.

James felt his face burn bright red upon hearing Severus mention this, but he would not be swayed. They set up a wedding date four weeks hence — on July 31st. The wedding ceremony was held at Dinsmore, which was the only place large enough to hold such a multitude of guests who could not be excluded from a Snape-Potter family marriage without being insulted, even if there was little warning.

The only one who could not come was Severus.

"I can't. I have something important to do," he said.

"What could be so important to miss my wedding?"

Severus looked sadly at James and sighed. "I'm trying to prevent you from meeting the worst party-crashers in existence."

Pandora was also unable to attend. A quick, one line letter read that she was too close to the truth, and though she knew that James and Lily would only marry once, she was going to assure that their marriage would be sound and their children would arrive in to a safe world. For her, that was more important than seeing the actual ceremony.

Who was James to argue with that logic? Still, for all that the only other two Potter family members were not able to be there (as far as James was concerned, Severus was a Potter as much as he was a Snape), it was the second happiest day of James' life. It was marred with only a snake-in-a-box toy from "Tom Riddle." James did not know if it was truly from Voldemort, since a snake popping him in the face was hardly Voldemort's style of threatening someone.

The happiest day of his life was the birth of his son. As newborn babes went, Harry was like so many who had come before. James was allowed to hold Harry only a moment before Severus whisked him away to clean off blood and mucus. In the moment that James beheld the shock of black hair and the bright green eyes so like Lily's, James knew that his entire life had come to this.

Being a father to someone as _he_ had never had one.

James covertly watched Severus carry Harry, who mewled and protested in hunger, to a near-by basin. James leaned over Lily's pillow to brush away her sweat-damp red hair. He grinned at her as she managed to crack open one bloodshot eye. "He's beautiful, Lily," he said with awe, "just beautiful." He planted a kiss on her forehead. "Happy anniversary, love."

Both of Lily's eyes shot open in that moment. "JAMES!" From the other side of the room, Severus nearly dropped Harry in surprise as Lily somehow managed to gather enough strength to wrap her hands around James' neck and strangle him. "I WANTED CHOCOLATES DAMMIT!"

James' happiest day of his life was, however, spoiled by something far worse than a vindictive toy.

Every time he recalled Harry's birth, he would remember Neville's loss.

Severus set off at dawn to tell Frank of Harry's birth (though James suspected he wanted to pay Frank back for catching Pandora's favourite curtains on fire in his drunken exuberance with Neville's birth) and came back well past midnight with little Neville in his arms and dried tear streaks on his face. James sat in the darkened kitchen, writing birth announcements to close friends and families, when he heard Severus enter.

"Sev?"

Severus slowly turned and faced him, face drawn and eyes darting like a cornered animal. James dropped his quill and leapt to his feet. He barked his shin against the chair as he hastily stumbled around it to reach his brother. "What's the matter?"

Something whimpered and white shifted in Severus' grip, and James dropped his eyes to see Neville Longbottom yawning and cooing. He slowly stepped away from Severus and shook his head in disbelief. "No. No, not — Frank and Alice…?"

Severus shuffled over to a kitchen chair. He stiffly sank down and cradled Neville, his face still drawn. He traced the fuzz on Neville's head. "They are not dead," he said in a flat voice, "but they should be." He looked stiff, James thought. If he were to poke Severus, his brother would shatter into jagged pieces everywhere. "It's the same thing as Pandora," Severus said softly. "This is an attack against Mrs. Longbottom, to ensure that she, too, does not fight Voldemort."

James hissed wordlessly. Severus laughed; it was hysterical, ugly, bitter and probably mocked Severus because of his own ties to Voldemort. "He said – he said that he didn't want to risk Augusta Longbottom's wrath by killing Frank and Alice, so he left them insane, shattered, worthless to Neville." Neville cried when Severus' grip tightened in anger. Fear and sorrow flashed across Severus' face as he relaxed and hushed Neville, trying to coax the babe from its pain.

James took a step forward. "Sev, are you going to keep Neville?"

Severus laughed again. "Neville belongs with his grandmother."

"But he's supposed to be—"

"Neville," said Severus again, "belongs with his _grandmother_ - not a cynical, selfish, untrusting gutter rat like myself who would probably do him more harm than Augusta Longbottom could." With that, Severus hugged Neville to himself and laughed without stopping, even when tears finally overcame his pride and the sun rose on a new day, even when Lily entered the kitchen and drew Neville away so he might feed from her own swollen breasts side-by-side with Harry.

* * *

Easter.

It was a time for celebrations, if one could find some reason to when Voldemort was becoming more and more successful. And here James sat, stewing in useless inactivity.

His mind had wandered a long while ago as he listened to someone (_What's his name? Adam Johnson? Daniel Fermur? No, that was the last speaker. Or was that David Parlour?_) give yet another mindless, thoughtless theory as to why Voldemort was slowly gaining for all of James' considerable luck and "quick anticipation" of Voldemort's actions.

People did not know that James had a spy; they attributed his ability to know where to be and what to do because of an attack of Death Eaters to being Pandora Snape's grandson. He let them believe such; for Severus' safety, no matter how he chafed at holding his tongue in silence.

From across the room filled with Aurors and top Ministry officials of the Defence Department, James could see Sirius fidgeting as restlessly as James felt.

That Voldemort did have a spy was not a suspicion James dismissed. He refused to think it was Severus. First of all, he knew it could _not_ be Severus because Severus just would not betray James. Severus just _couldn't_. Second of all, while Severus gave James information, James never informed Severus of how it was utilized. They both mutually agreed that the less Severus knew, the better.

James looked around at the others and wondered how rude it would be if he fell asleep. Already someone was snoring far off to his left. Quite frankly, sitting around whilst twiddling thumbs, and arguing whether it was ethical to give Voldemort tacky nicknames during the discussion was not producing badly-needed results.

Beside him, James listened to Lily playing with little Harry. Harry sat in her lap and giggled as Lily tugged at his fingers and toes and mouthed words at him. James felt his heart swell with pride and love as he observed. Lily looked up and saw. She smiled back and wordlessly passed Harry over. Harry looked puzzled at the sudden switch, but was almost immediately fascinated with his father's glasses. James made a face as Harry tugged them off his face.

No one had said anything when James showed up with Lily on tow. Everyone had been told to act normal so as not to attract attention from Death Eaters. The only time James ever went anywhere without Lily and Harry was when he was off on an Auror mission. No one would suspect a mission of some sort if he went somewhere on Easter with his wife and young son.

As the current speaker moved down and another stepped up to take his place, Harry dropped James' glasses to the floor. James bent over to retrieve them, and then chaos erupted.

It happened as a scream, the sounds of flesh striking against flesh, and harsh, clipped words.

_ "Avada Kedavra." _

Lily squeaked as James, squashing Harry close to his chest, planted a hand upon her head, pushing her down out of sight. Weight slammed against weight as snarled curses hurled through the air. Charms and hexes flew at individuals as enemies met. Someone blindly stumbled over James and clipped Harry with a flailing foot. Harry wailed and James' chest suddenly ached from a different pain.

"James!" Lily grabbed James' shirt and bunched it into a tight fist. "Death Eaters are attacking!"

"Stay down!" James pushed her closer to the floor. Someone fell over the chairs in front of them and landed on James' glasses. Above Harry's screaming, James heard the glass break and he winced. He pulled his wand out. "Be prepared," he said. "Wrap shield charms around yourself and Harry." He held Harry out to Lily, but Harry, frightened from the loud sounds of fighting, screamed louder and clung to James.

"Where's your extra glasses?" Lily began riffling through James' pockets as he tried to look through the space between the chairs at the swirling mass of bodies.

"Lily." James snatched Lily's hand and squeezed it. "I want you to take Harry and get out. I won't let you two get hurt." _It's my fault,_ he thought to himself_. I placed them in danger._ "Get out of here!" He offered Harry out to Lily again.

"No!" Lily crashed against him, crushing Harry between their bodies. "Not him!" Harry screamed louder and James looked over his shoulder at the black blur that stood before him. One long blur extended forward with a long brown line before that. The brown line pointed at him.

"_Crucio_." The word was drawn out in a long, soft hiss.

James felt Lily struggle to jump to her feet. He surged to his own with his back to the attackers and pushed her down. "Stay down!" The spell hit him in the centre of his shoulders, directly against his spine, and his nerves lit on fire and the pain in his chest was exquisite agony in comparison. Harry wailed as James dropped soundlessly to his knees. Two more voices joined the first, and the pain grew sharper and sharper.

_Protect Harry._

His chest hurt hurt hurt and so did his back but he had no heart, no heart to pump the blood boiling in his veins – it stopped, shocked still by the sudden onslaught of agony. Somewhere, Lily was screaming and her voice was growing distant. He wanted her to come back, take Harry, get away because darkness was approaching and blood was going to pool on the floor and there was the dark man coming forward with his cape billowing behind like a storm cloud, except that the dark man was Severus and the storm was in his eyes.

Blood suddenly washed over him, everywhere. Rivers of it, and it was leaking out of his eyes and his ears and mouth and nose. Jonathon's head went one way and his body went another. Oliver dead on his knees, his intestines spilled forth. Anne laying face down in the river, and his aunts shrieked for death as they bobbed in bits and pieces. And there was little Harry, except he wasn't little and there was a scar on his forehead.

He clutched Harry close, lest his own son should feel that bone-deep, soul-scouring pain in his heart like James. No, not the little one; not the most innocent of all. Not this blood nor this silence.

_Not a word, not a sound._ Crimson-turned blue eyes set in a twisted and ugly face. _Not a word, not a sound. _

_In the end, you'll only receive what you create._

"Father," James whispered in defiance to the dark man's command before he was lost down a lonely, dark spiral of silent madness and beyond to where nothing but shadows of the past existed.

* * *

The first thing that James became aware of after so long was how white the world was. After dwelling an eternity in a world black but for the memories of violently spilt blood and agony amidst ashes, the white ceiling he found himself wordlessly staring at seemed so fragile and weak. While the blackness was oppressive and selfish, this white was small and vulnerable. He thought he heard someone speaking, but he couldn't focus on anything but the white. Slowly, the darkness came back for him, cackling in malicious glee.

* * *

The pain from the curse had reached a peak where James was forced to move beyond its feeling. James had moved so far beyond it that he was sure he could never feel again. After he awoke, he sometimes thought he heard words, but they were blurs of sound that refused to mean anything. Time passed, and James had no way of knowing how much. He moved beyond even the scope of memory, because that caused emotions, and emotions had to be felt. And felt them he did, as a steady pulse of agony where his heart should have been.

Instead, he persisted, despite its own bluntness, no matter how far everything was beyond his numb reach.

A smudge of green was the only other colour, beyond red, white, and black. Every time James tried to grasp its meaning, the colours ran together and he lost the smudge. Days blurred into weeks, and he remained senseless. Just when the green came into focus, he thought they might have been worried eyes. The colours would fade, and James faded with them.

* * *

The blood came and went in rivers. It was the only thing he understood in this cold, dark, silent world that only blood touched. So he focused on the blood, more out of boredom than anything else. There were quantities of it, and it never seemed to stop plaguing him. Fleeting images swam in the depths, shadows of what he had once known. James finally knelt at the bank and scooped his hands into the thick liquid and tried to grapple at the images.

_James?_ a voice said. The surface of the river rippled as the voice originated from beneath. James shrank back from the voice – too long has it been since he heard that person, but he could still gag upon the flesh, choke upon the ashes. _James. I know you are there._

James tried to pull his hands away so he might run, but something below the surface captured his wrists, trapping him there at the river. _James? Speak to me, _the voice pleaded, _please. _

He tried to respond, but his voice was gone. The dark man had told him to be silent and he couldn't force the words past the mouthful of flesh…!

_James, go back. _

Ashes coated his nostrils, blocking his air. He pulled at his hands – how could he go if he were caught?

_James, you must go back._ Jonathon's voice overlaid another. A layer of hardness gave it an unsteady feel. Another voice, so fragile that it broke into a thousand shards of sorrow, drifted from above the river of the blood and blended with his little brother's.

_James, you must go back. _

"James, you must come back."

_Go back to your family._

"Come back to your family."

_They need you. _

"We need you."

Above this sound free-floated another. It was a child's voice; one that uttered a word that James was never capable of speaking in his silence.

"Papa?"

And his hands were released from the river of blood.

White washed over the red, purifying the stains. James found the strength to turn his head. The blurs shifted and then he saw one little hand stretching out to him. "Papa?" James took in a deep breath as he reached back. A woman gasped as the little hand wrapped around one of his fingers, and a baby laughed. "Papa!"

James squinted, unable to see anything but the white and the hand. "Harry?" he asked. His voice was gravely from disuse. From a distance, he heard Lily cry out with relief.

"Oh, James!"

James smiled. The colours faded as he descended into the darkness once more, but this darkness was friendly and warm, not oppressive and selfish. He welcomed it, and slept without dreaming of blood.

* * *

The doctors and nurses were very kind in helping James. The purpose for their exercises and therapy was to help James regain the senses destroyed beneath the onslaught of pain. Awed voices commented often of how it was amazing he had not been driven mad, as had the Longbottoms. Some people merely shrugged and attested his strength to the Snape blood, to which others nodded in agreement.

This therapy only helped so much, for each of Lily's visits with Harry did James more help than anything else. He relearned the sweet passion of love through them. James felt that the purpose everything he did — from moving to thinking — was all for this love. Two long months passed as he flourished an hour a day with Lily and Harry, and languished in lonely misery the other twenty-three hours. For them he strove to become better. If he were better, then he could leave this white place and be with them forever.

Lily was quiet and gentle. Harry more than made up for the lack of noise. He laughed, squealed, and babbled wordlessly whenever he was with his father. James did not notice the shadows in Lily's eyes, of how careful she skirted around mentions of family, either hers or James'. James never bothered to ask. His entire world was centred upon his wife and son, the only two individuals who mattered.

On some, faraway level, James distantly recalled something of an older woman whose soft breasts and arms were a refuge, and of a brittle young man with a surly wit and black eyes that carried a storm. He pushed such recollections away, not wanting to think of them. Every time he did, the vision of all-knowing blue eyes or black eyes bearing shattered innocence and trust filled his mind, and his chest ached severely with each thump of his heart. He was not ready for pain, cried horribly when his senses would retreat from the renewed agony and leave him deaf and dumb once more, so he forced such thoughts and visions away.

After two months, Sirius came for the first time. He and James greeted each other as long-lost brothers. There was a great deal of laughter, hugs from everyone, and remarks of good health. From where she sat upon James' hospital bed, Lily watched with a bright smile. Little Harry passed from mother to father to godfather and back to father again. Harry giggled and babbled proudly.

"Oh boy!" Sirius looked James over appreciatively. "Boy, you look good! I can't tell you how much _better_ I feel seeing you like this!" He paused a moment as he watched James play with Harry's fingers. He shook his head, as if in disbelief that his friend was recovering against all odds. "Oh, James, if only you know how worried we all were. So how's it coming?"

James grinned at him. "D-doing great," he said. "The doctors say if m-my progress k-keeps up, I can leave in eight w-weeks."

Sirius rubbed his hands together in excitement. His eyes twinkled merrily. "The bastard could put you down, but you wouldn't stay there!"

James, thinking Sirius meant Voldemort, nodded his head in agreement.

Sirius' cheerfulness wilted somewhat under the strain of suppressed anger. "At least he got his just desserts for attacking you," he muttered darkly. James looked at Lily in puzzlement – was Voldemort defeated? Surely she might have mentioned it, except that she had gone sheet-white and was mouthing the word _no_ at Sirius. Sirius suddenly looked guilty.

James frowned. "Wh-what do you mean?"

"Nothing."

James placed Harry on the floor lest he accidentally drop him from suddenly weak arms, and stood. "No, wh-what did you mean? Y-you weren't talking about V-Voldemort?"

Sirius and Lily exchanged looks that had the hair on the back of James' neck rising. His heart thudded once, painfully, in his chest. "Wh-who _were_ you talking about?"

A name nudged at his memory, but he pushed it away. James looked from Lily's panic-stricken face to Sirius' guilt-ridden expression. The name clambered for attention, and went so far as to snarl at him in such a familiar manner that he couldn't ignore. "Severus," said James softly. Both Lily and Sirius winced. He pressed a hand over his heart as the painful thuds increased in tempo. "Why h-hasn't Sev been h-here to see me? Wh-what happened t-to him?"

Lily stood up. "James, don't." James struggled to think against the pain in his chest. She said something, but he could not hear it. His senses were already beginning to quit once more under the onslaught of pain. He forced himself to speak, to annunciate each word clearly.

"What h-happened to S-Sev?" He looked directly at Sirius, focusing his words and watching the other man's lips closely. "Where is _m-my_ _brother_?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

James' hand shot out, too fast and too sudden for anyone to know it until Sirius realized that James had grabbed him by the front of his shirt and was shouting. "_Where is my brother_?"

Sirius sighed and shrugged. "James, he betrayed us." He calmly untangled James' hand from where it had fisted the material of his shirt. James lip-read the words better than he could hear them. "He sold out to Voldemort, told him of what was going on, and led that attack against us. The attack that hurt you. At the trial, he said he sold himself for knowledge of Dark Arts and he enjoyed what he did. He was the spy."

"S-Sev?" James stuttered and stopped. "S-Sev is s-spy." _My spy!_ He silently screamed in frustration. _He sold himself to Voldemort for knowledge of what Voldemort did! He was _my_ spy! _"What h-h-h-happ... pen..." James stopped and wanted to weep as his tongue became thick and he couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe past the pain or ashes, couldn't make his lips work. He swayed unsteadily on his feet and Sirius reached out to steady him.

James whirled around and stumbled on legs that suddenly lost their strength. He felt Lily's hands grab at his shoulders and he shrugged them away as bitter memories flooded back, Severus a part of each one.

Severus tired and drained of strength. Severus' eyes filled with suppressed tears and guilt for his actions, but never once did he complain. Severus laughing hysterically after the Longbottoms' attack and unable to stop, even when James hugged him close and wouldn't let go.

Lily grabbed him and pulled him around so he faced her. "James, listen." He heard the faraway sound of her voice. It was clear, but faint. "Only those at the trial know he's Voldemort's spy. Words never spread anywhere else, and we don't like to talk about it in places that are filled with people, like hospitals. We think it's for the best, since it would break Grandmother's heart to know what happened. Let it be, please. We'll talk more about it when you are better."

James saw past her worried green eyes. Beyond them were black eyes that pleaded for his trust. Broken and bleeding, trust shattered. Black eyes that carried the storm. James pulled away from her and ran away to those eyes he had disappointed. He Apparated wildly to Dinsmore, his slipping senses and tottering madness somehow enabling him to slide beneath the shields wrapped around Saint Mungo's.

He couldn't recognize the dark surroundings, the many shelves that bulged with books. But there was a bracer of candles, and he could remember taking a book away from the eyes that read there. Something shuffled into the light, and Dumbledore appeared with a book in his hand. He sighed but did not appear surprised to see James.

"Your grandmother and I used to exchange books," Dumbledore explained wearily as he looked down at the book in his hands. "It has been a long time since she and I spoke together."

James took one stumbling step towards Dumbledore and stopped, his shoulder leaning heavily against the bookshelf. "S-Sev?" he asked desperately, fingers grasping at one of the shelves.

Dumbledore stared at the book's cover for a long time. "He was sent to Azkaban." James squinted at Dumbledore's lips. His hearing came in short spurts, which only helped him guess what Dumbledore said. The bushy beard obscured his sight of the Headmaster's lips.

"Wh-why?"

Dumbledore looked over the rim of his glasses at James. "In the trial, he was asked why he became a Death Eater. He said for knowledge. He did not deny the accusation of doing so freely. When asked if he enjoyed it, he answered yes."

James shook his head in disbelief. "N-no." That couldn't have happened – they must have the wrong Severus Snape, except… except how many could there be? Unless someone resurrected Pandora's father, but he was sure that Severus Snape the Senior would have told the necromancer responsible just where the man could put his spells and be done with it.

Dumbledore gazed sadly at him. "I'm sorry, James."

"N-no. He's s-spy."

"I know."

James gestured wordlessly at himself as he struggled to speak. The pain in his chest increased. "N-no. M-my spy! He's _my_ s-spy!"

Dumbledore dropped his book in shock. Black eyes appeared again and James desperately reached out to them in apology. Dumbledore swiftly approached James and placed his hands on James' shoulders to steady him. James trembled from the contact and Dumbledore drew back.

"You're freezing, boy." Dumbledore shrugged off the heavy winter robe he wore to protect himself from the catacombs' cold drafts and slung it over James' shoulders.

James fell away from Dumbledore and reached for the black eyes. He wildly Apparated once more.

* * *

The dementors did nothing to stop him. As James tripped through the freezing-cold halls of Azkaban's prison of ice, his legs shaking from fatigue, he felt only the need to see his brother. He searched endlessly, crying softly while he pressed one hand against his aching chest. Most of his senses were too locked up for the dementors to reach out and manipulate. Even if his senses were not locked up, it was impossible to overcome someone by their worst memories when they already were.

James glared as one dementor drew forward to confront him, and uncontrolled magic flared around him for a moment. The dementor shrank away. "I-I'm here t-to see my-my brother." James drew himself upright, his wand held forth like a sword. "L-lead me to Severus Snape!" The dementor regarded him a moment before nodding once and floating away. James followed after. He felt his strength return slowly, and in the time it took for him to reach Severus' cell, James had turned his pain and shock into a sword of anger which he used to lend himself strength.

He was angry at Lily for not saying a word about Severus, angry at Sirius for thinking that Severus had betrayed him, angry at himself for not thinking and inquiring after Severus earlier, but most of all… Most of all, James was angry with Severus for not telling the people the truth. It was so utterly _like him_ to let others think what they would, and it was so utterly _stupid_ and _wasteful_.

When the dementor opened the door of Severus' cell and James entered, he was riding so high off the anger that he could not control it any longer. Severus sat beside the window and stared out of it with a slight hint of wistfulness. He turned slowly to face James. His black eyes held questions and sorrow, but were otherwise void of everything that had made Severus _himself_.

The door closed and the dementor moved on. James gritted his teeth and pulled back enough of his anger to speak civilly. "Why didn't you tell them?" A soft voice, indeed. That he could speak was a wonder, but sound made his ears ache. "Why didn't you tell them Voldemort gave you the choice of death or joining him, and you joined him with the intent of becoming my spy? That you had to protect Lily?"

It took a long while for Severus to answer. He stirred away from the wistfulness before awareness blossomed. "Did you tell them?" The question was soft and tempered with resignation.

James felt his anger flare. "No!" He struggled against it and even managed to lower his voice once more. "I came here as soon as I was aware of anything!"

Another long while passed before Severus answered. "Aware?" It sounded more like a casual statement than a question.

"I was in a coma for the first eight weeks, and the last eight were spent in therapy, gaining back my lost senses. No one told me you were sent here to this godforsaken prison until Sirius let it slip that you had gotten your just desserts; everyone thought you were guilty. Even Lily. I forced Sirius to explain what he meant. Everyone who knows what happened to you — and thankfully it's only a damn few — thinks you were the spy telling Voldemort the Aurors' plans. Dumbledore told me you willingly become a Death Eater for knowledge and you _enjoyed_ it."

James waited for Severus to reply. Severus reached a hand out to him and looked as if he struggled to say something. After a moment, Severus dropped his hand and slumped against the wall, his strength and purpose lost. James stumbled to kneel before Severus. Neither of them seemed to notice that James leaned heavily against Severus for support. Oh, how his heart seemed to be breaking in two!

"We both know you became a Death Eater for knowledge about Voldemort's actions, and I have seen your eyes after you came from your missions. I have seen the pain and the grief you harbour within yourself and wouldn't share with me. I know you didn't enjoy what you did. _Why'd _you say you did? If you had _told_ them otherwise, they'd have offered you a chance to exchange information and names for freedom. _Why'd _you allow them to imprison you _here_ instead of explaining to them that you were _my spy_?"

James searched Severus' face for any indication of thought or feeling. All James saw was resignation. Gone was the defiant spark in black depths that drove ever onward in a conquest of life. "You want to stay here," he said flatly, all anger gone when he realized how beaten Severus was. Severus smiled sadly and nodded once.

The pain in his chest grew worse. James' vision wavered and it seemed that Severus was slipping away, away from reality and beyond his reach, to the endless darkness where spilt blood existed only. James succumbed to the pain and cried as he threw his arms around Severus, desperate to keep him near – a single light (oh, the irony that the blackest of all the Potters – no matter how much he might deny being one – would be James' guiding light). "Oh Sev!" He buried his face in the bony hollow where Severus' shoulder curved into his neck. "You were always the strong one, just like Grandmother. You may have been affected by what others did to you, but you never let it hold you back and even when I'd have sought revenge, you forgot, if not forgave, the matter. _Where's_ your strength now?"

_Come back! Don't leave me! _

Severus patted his arm and tried to pull free from James. "Leave me be," he said. "Forget about me. All that I need is here."

James let Severus slide away but never released his grip; he stared in disbelief. He desperately searched the black eyes for something beyond resignation. Severus weakly waved him away. He struggled to say something more again, but did not succeed. Again his purpose and strength disappeared.

James swept the wild, overgrown curls away from Severus' eyes to look closely. Severus was tired. James knew that; he understood too much about being tired. "Do you have nothing left?" he asked as the pain in his heart increased, forcing more tears from him. One tear slid down and ran along the length of his lips and it tasted…wrong. Not salty, like tears ought to be, but like undercooked flesh. Bile rose in his throat.

Severus stared back with empty eyes. Even the resignation was gone. James flinched back from it, horrified of how alike Severus' eyes were to Voldemort's. After a moment, he pulled Dumbledore's heavy winter robe off and piled them on top of Severus. "I'll be back," he promised fiercely as he secured the robes tightly around Severus' thin shoulders, suddenly ferociously glad that his hands no longer shook. "I'm not leaving you here to rot! You're every bit a hero as I am and you don't deserve to be here. This isn't right."

"It's not that bad," Severus said. He sounded desperate and small, like a child trying to excuse his bad behaviour. "There's food, and it's not wet."

James remembered the distrusting child Pandora had rescued from the slums. "Won't you ever move on from the past?" he asked softly as he departed from the cell. Once outside it, he pondered what to do next.

The answer came to him immediately, like a bolt of lightening from a storm cloud.

Pandora Potter.

James hurried through the halls to the Apparation field outside the prison. If there was one person in the world who could force Severus from the emotionally dead state he had sunk, it was Pandora. She was the only one James knew Severus to ever implicitly trust enough to do everything she told him. The only problem with that was he did not know where to find her. But… But he knew of something that could implicitly track her down.

With strength borne from resolve, he stepped beyond the barrier and Apparated a third time.

* * *

The Mirror of Rebounds was exactly where James had seen it last. Pandora's room was free of dust because Lily still cleaned it regularly. He stared at the blue-covered lump for a long moment before a voice spoke behind him.

"What're you up to, kid?"

James looked over his shoulder at Cousin Quigley, who nervously clutched a bottle of wine close.

"I want the Mirror of Rebounds to show me where Grandmother is."

"Ah." Cousin Quigley shrugged. "You needn't the Mirror of Rebounds for that. _I_ can do it for you."

"Oh?"

Cousin Quigley grinned. "Hell, I can even take you to her."

James took a step forward. "Then do so."

Cousin Quigley pointed. James turned around to see at what he was pointing. The blue cloth that covered the Mirror of Rebounds fell away and James looked at his dim, distorted reflection. Something moved in the deeper depths of the mirror. James approached for a closer look. Light shifted suddenly within the mirror. He reached out to touch it, and was sucked into darkness.

_Grandmother?_ His thought rolled through the darkness. The sound and shape of it floated freely. A presence stirred against it, and suddenly James was beside Pandora as she stood before a gigantic slab of stone covered with symbols of a language long dead.

James looked around to see that they stood in a cave. The ceiling was low and the sides were cramped. Pandora studied the symbols from the light of a smoky lantern, not even aware of her immediate surroundings. James, holding his breath in unsure surprise, reached a hand out and brushed his fingers against the outline of a protruding shoulder blade. She slowly looked from the symbols to James. Her eyes were red-rimmed from too much reading and not enough sleep, but they widened in shock. "James?"

"Grandmother!" James threw his arms around Pandora and hugged her, exuberant to see her for the first time in five years. "Grandmother!" She gasped as he squeezed too tightly. He dropped his arms guiltily, and realized for the first time recognized how fragile and old she had become. "Grandmother?"

Pandora smiled and held her arms out to him, and he pressed close, too large to duck his head and press it against her bosom, which no longer seemed so soft or generous. "It's good to see you, James," she whispered against his shoulder. They pulled away and she smiled up at him. "_How_ did you get here?"

"I'm not too sure, but Cousin Quigley—"

"Wait." Pandora dropped her hands. "Never mind. If Cousin Quigley is involved, I don't believe I actually want to know." Her joyous smile was tinted with sorrow. "I know you aren't here just because you missed me." The smile fell away. "What's wrong?"

James was silent for a moment. "Sev," he said finally as he guiltily shuffled his feet.

Pandora glared at him. James suddenly felt about two inches tall. "What did you two do this time? I _told_ you to stop causing contention."

James muttered under his breath.

"When did you pick up mumbling? I know I never permitted such in my household."

James muttered a little louder.

"Speak up, James. I'm an old woman and my hearing is starting to go."

"SeverusisinAzkabanbecauseveryonethinkshe'sVoldemort'sspybuthe'snotandwe'reinawhole

lotoftroublebecauseit'smyfaultandI'mreallyreallysorryGrandmother."

"Severus is . . ." Pandora stared at James for a long while. He could practically see the cogs in her mind turning slowly to fully understand what he just said. "MY SEVERUS IS WHERE?!"

* * *

James did not have to say much. He explained that Severus had been tricked into meeting Voldemort and forced into a situation of either himself or Lily. Severus, a Snape through and through, decided to make the best of the situation with James' help. Since the agreement between the brothers meant James couldn't tell a single soul, no one could step forward with the truth during Severus' trial.

James told Pandora that he had been indisposed at the time, but he did not say a single word about the attack or the cost of recovery. From the way she studied him with her all-knowing blue eyes, James had a feeling that she was going to wring the information out of him after the more pressing issue of Severus was resolved.

"He's not going to stay in Azkaban," Pandora declared firmly. She picked up her lamp and shuffled down the long, low cavern they. James hurried after her. He studied the way she dragged her feet and how her shoulders slumped forward. He wanted to hold her close and fervently promise to take care of her, love her for all her remaining days. It was not right that Pandora should be so old and weary! She was supposed to be just ending the prime of her wizarding life!

James followed Pandora out of the cramped cave to the tiny village of black-skinned natives. Words exchanged between her and the village shaman, but the communication was slow and inaccurate. The translation spells were unreliable at best, since each language establishes its own perceptions and the spells could not transcend the bounders that separated them.

"Grandmother," said James, "won't you be returning?"

"No, James," she replied. "I've learnt all that I can. I travelled all through the Middle East, and my travels led me here to the darker parts of Africa. What I will have to do cannot be put off anymore." She sighed and looked at James. "I'm old, James. Old before my time, and I grow older and feebler with each passing day. My endurance is shot all to hell – I've little left, and soon even that will be gone and then I won't be able to do what I need to do." The look in her eyes was anxious and fearful. She reached out to James and placed one hand on his shoulder. The other she pressed against his lips. "You will have to go into hiding, James."

The hand against his lips kept him from responding, and Pandora dropped her voice into a fierce whisper. "I'm going to have to attack Riddle, James. I will break the sanctuary he granted you, and you must be safe before that happens. I want you to take Lily and Harry, and I want you three to go into hiding under the Fidelius Charm."

* * *

So they did. They returned home to Dinsmore, and from there Pandora went directly to Azkaban to see Severus. She ran into the director of Azkaban, who had missed out on James' visit. She listened to the director for two minutes as he told her the rules and regulations, and even began to call forth dementors to have her removed from the property. She lost her patience with him and unleashed the infamous Snape sarcasm upon the unfortunate man's head. Upon learning that she could force him out of his job, forever blacken his work record, who exactly was this eccentric old lady, and that she _personally_ knew his terror of a godmother, the director eagerly led her to Severus' cell.

She spoke with Severus briefly, and left then to launch a surprise campaign against the Ministry of Magic to free her adopted grandson. Due to some surprisingly dirty tactics on her part, a mini fortune spent in bribes, and the influence she still possessed over the wizarding society as both a Snape and a Potter, Pandora managed to force a recall on Severus' sentence to allow probation. She then spoke to Dumbledore. He agreed to hold Severus' parole under his supervision.

Having seen to Severus' release, Pandora sought out James and arranged matters for him to go into hiding. No news of this leaked out to the real world, but was instead only known to a few select individuals. James wanted Sirius to be his secret keeper, but both Pandora and Sirius instead desired someone who would attract very little notice from Voldemort and his lackeys.

"Peter," said Sirius. "Let it be Peter."

Pandora agreed. "Yes. Sirius is too obvious a choice. If he becomes the secret keeper, he will be in as much danger as you, James. Peter is hardly known by anyone and would be safe by reason of discretion and obscurity."

With that decided, the site for the Charm was created. Pandora pulled James to the side, away from the circle where Lily and Harry waited, and said her last goodbyes.

James clung to her closely, not wanting to release the woman who had been a mother, father, and grandmother to him since the day he was orphaned. She had been the world before Lily entered his life, and she was still the sun that his world revolved around.

"Oh come now." Pandora patted his shoulder. "I'm getting old and will die soon. I may as well take down Tom Riddle with me. A blaze of glory, befitting of my life."

"Don't."

"I have to, James. I'm the only one who is strong enough and yet not important enough for the world to miss."

"What about Harry? He'll never know his great-grandmother."

"Hush. We must all move on."

"Grandmother." James stared solemnly at Pandora. "I want you to promise me something."

"That depends on the nature and cost of the promise."

James nervously licked his lips. "I want you to promise me that you will _try_ to live. That you will get away from Volde — er, Tom Riddle. And if you're hurt, I want you to go to people you know will help you get better, _no matter what_. Promise me." Pandora said nothing as she studied him. James rubbed at his eyes, which were beginning to grow moist. Please, no tears now, especially not the bloody ones. "Please, grandmother. Do that for Harry. And do it for Sev, since with me gone and Frank insane, he won't have anyone now but you. You know that Sev will get into so much trouble without me being there to bail him out."

"If I recall correctly, you got him into most of that trouble. James—"

"Please. No matter what happens for me, do it for Harry, and for Severus."

Pandora nodded slowly. "Very well. I promise you I will live with the best of my abilities and knowledge for Harry and Severus."

James smiled gratefully at her. "Thank you."

Pandora stood on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on James' cheek. "Go well and be safe, my boy," she said softly.

* * *

Almost twenty years later to the day after James witnessed his family's slaughter, Voldemort attacked Godric's Hollow with the intent of repeating history. James had not wanted to return to the home where his family had died but he deemed it best; after all, who in their right mind would wish to live in the place that held such traumatic memories?

It was not the Killing Curse that stole James' life. In the moment that Voldemort cast it, James' entire world halted, and Time was suspended in a single moment. James' mind blossomed, receptive finally to the Mirror of Rebounds, and his memories, from when he hid under the kitchen table to eat his stolen cookie, to sending Lily away as he distracted Voldemort, replayed all at once. All the winces of pain in his heart, each painful shudder or thump, every explosion of anguish during those twenty years came back all at once, a tidal wave of woe. Something in his chest erupted finally, overcome by far too much at once.

James' vision shattered into a kaleidoscope of colours as one last thought occurred to him. _And this I do know of you: James Potter, you _will_ die of a broken heart._

Time resumed, and when the Killing Curse finally struck James, it was too late to kill him.

He had already died when his heart, weakened too long from the unnatural strain of anguish, broke apart like Severus' trust.

And it was within this house where Oliver Potter, the father of James Potter and the son of Pandora Snape, laid a Blood Curse upon Voldemort. The Blood Curse was fulfilled as the blood of whose had been brutally spilled intervened to protect the most innocent of all, and thus did the legend of Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, come into being.


End file.
